


A Pocket In Time

by destimushi



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Marvel Cinematic Universe RPF, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Canon Divergence - Thor: Ragnarok (2017), Canon Divergent, Chris Is A Sweetheart, Coping, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Happy Ending, M/M, Memory Loss, Memory Magic, Mistaken Identity, Recreational Drug Use, References to Drugs, Tom Has Issues, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, burlesque dancer tom, drug of choice is weed, gym owner chris, performer tom, tragic backstory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-07
Updated: 2018-04-10
Packaged: 2019-03-14 22:10:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 34,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13599432
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/destimushi/pseuds/destimushi
Summary: Burlesque dancer Tom has it all figured out. He loves the freedom his job offers and enjoys the perks of being an object of desire. It doesn’t matter that something has felt missing his whole life as long as he lives in the moment.Meeting Chris turns Tom’s world upside down. Despite his haunting past, he learns what it’s like to live and love again with Chris by his side. However, in a world of gods and magic, a happily-ever-after is just the beginning.A Thorki Hiddlesworth crossover where nothing is as it seems.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This ship has taken over my life, and here I am with a multichapter story when I never thought I'd ever even write for this ship! The story is...a bit complicated to explain, the tags can be a bit confusing, but please, if you give this story a chance, to stick it out till the end. Everything will make sense, I promise! 
> 
> Lots of fluff, some angst, first dates and first kisses. Story will be updated every Tuesday. Thanks for reading. I hope you enjoy it!
> 
> Beta'd by my awesome friend [JhanaMay](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JhanaMay/pseuds/JhanaMay), all other mistakes are my own!

Five. Four. Three. Two. One.

Music thumps through him, the beat loud and obnoxious. Tom swipes the back of his hand across his forehead, runs his fingers through sweat-drenched hair, and drags his palms along his shorts before reaching for the barbell above him. He’s being watched, but Tom ignores the pointed stare as he lowers the loaded bar. Metal kisses the thin material of his t-shirt, then he pushes it away from his chest with a puff of breath.

His muscles sing with fatigue, fibres burning as they rip and knot over and over until his limbs shake with effort. Until the voices in his head quiet to a whisper. The song ends, and another driving beat takes over, this one even more demanding. Tom settles the bar into the L-brackets—the clang of metal on metal muted through his earbuds—and sucks in gulps of air as his chest heaves in time with his jagged breathing.

People go to the gym for different reasons: to get in shape, to fit into a smaller dress, to stave off inevitable death for a while longer. For Tom, it’s for the quiet as his body moves through the motions of setting his mind free. When he’s lifting, the world fades away; nothing matters but the metal in his hands and the sweat dripping down his chest. For a little while, Tom can breathe easy.

He racks the barbell with a grunt after another set and doesn’t see the man approach until a shadow falls over him from above. The stranger points at his ears, mimicking the motions of plucking something from them, and Tom bites back a flare of irritation. The man has been watching him since Tom arrived, and despite his good looks, Tom’s done his best to ignore him.

Tom’s used to being under the spotlight, used to men and women watching him with desire. But when he’s at the gym, he prefers to stay in the shadows, to be left alone with his physical exhaustion and the rare emptiness in his head.

Pulling out his earbuds, Tom pushes onto his elbows and cocks an eyebrow. “Can I help you?”

“Just thought you might want a spot,” the stranger says with a wide grin, and even his deep dimples and flashing blue eyes can’t douse Tom’s annoyance. His last set was a little unsteady, but it was his fifth. “What’re you benching, one seventy?”

“One seventy-five, actually.” Tom glances at the stack of metal plates slotted on either side of his barbell, then swings his gaze back to the stranger with the blinding smile. “And I’m good. I prefer to workout alone.” The man didn’t come over just to offer Tom a spot, not with that smirk and the glint in his eyes. Tom knows that look well, and he might even be interested if this was anywhere but the gym and the guy didn’t just insult his bench press.

The stranger shrugs, smile unwavering, and takes a seat on the bench next to Tom as if it’s the most natural thing to do. As if Tom’s chilly response did nothing to deter him. “Haven’t seen you around before. New in town?”

“Yes.” Which part of _I prefer to workout alone_ does this guy not understand? Tom shifts into a sitting position and regards the stranger. He wants something. Everyone wants something. But the smirk on the man’s lips melts into a soft, genuine smile, and Tom’s not sure he’s got what this beautiful stranger is looking for.    

“How are you enjoying Vancouver so far?” His voice rolls soft like distant thunder.

“It’s a city. Not unlike other cities.” Tom hides his shiver with a shrug and makes to put his earbuds back in.

Something flashes behind those brilliant blue eyes, and Tom’s hand freezes. He didn’t come to the gym looking for small talk, and he’s not looking to get picked up by anyone, but the look on this man’s face sets Tom’s gut twisting. His soft blue eyes sparkle under the fluorescent light, and they breathe life into a part of Tom he thought long dead. It’s electrifying. It’s unsettling. It’s irritating as hell.  

“Are you here for work?” His eyes dance with mischief as his smile grows wider. “Pleasure?”

“Work,” Tom replies quickly. “And I really should get back to my workout.”

The man runs thick fingers through his long, blond hair and gives Tom a knowing look. “Well, if you think you’ll need a spot later, just give me a holler—”

“Hey, Chris,” the receptionist shouts from the front door, and the stranger—Chris—turns toward the sound. “Jessica’s here.” The beefcake sitting behind the front desk waves and points at a woman standing across from him. So, he works here.

“I’ll be right over.” Chris waves back before returning his attention to Tom and the infuriating smile plastered on his face turns apologetic. “I’d love to stay and chat, but duty calls.”

Tom gives Chris a two-finger salute as his lips press into a thin smile, then shoves his earbuds back in. The racing EDM beat washes over him, and Tom lays back on the bench, wrapping his hands around the bar to start his next set.

Chris winks at him, as if he wasn’t just rudely dismissed, before jogging toward the front of the gym to greet his client. Tom watches his retreating silhouette out of the corner of his eye, licks his lips as he drinks in Chris’ broad shoulders, narrow waist, and thick thighs, and finds himself inexplicably dejected that Chris is gone.

 _What the hell._ Tom shakes his head and twists his grips around the barbell before lowering it to his chest.  

Guys like Chris—with their hard bodies and easy smiles—are aggravating at best and obnoxious at worst. Sure, they’re good to look at, some are even fun in the sack, but they all think the sun shines out of their asses, and Tom doesn’t have the energy for that. Even if he finds himself drawn to Chris’ hulking form as he walks Jessica through the different sections of the gym. His smile is as blinding from afar as it was up close, with his mesmerizing blue eyes narrowing into slits as the corners crinkle.

Tom wants to despise Chris like he despises most people, but he can’t find it in himself to dismiss the man. Chris inserted himself into Tom’s personal space, but it wasn’t violating, wasn’t demanding. A simple gesture of easy companionship that Tom’s not used to and hasn’t sought in a long time.

Despite Tom’s prickly, clipped responses, Chris had seemed at ease, full of a genuine interest that Tom wants desperately to escape from. But there’s nothing about Chris that’s discountable, and Tom’s drawn to the man’s larger-than-life presence.

Tom finishes the last set of bench presses and sits up on the bench, turning off his music as sweat chills his skin.  

He’s hyper-aware of every little thing Chris does with his hands, of the spread of his legs as he watches his client with furrowed eyebrows, critiquing and instructing and encouraging her every step of the way. Now that he’s had a good look at Chris, Tom can’t take his eyes off him. Chris gives Jessica’s shoulder a squeeze. Her cheeks turn a powder pink, and Tom seethes with a level of possessiveness he hasn’t felt in a long time.

This is ridiculous. He’s gone from ignoring Chris to stalking him. They’ve barely talked, and yet, here he is, heading toward the squat rack so he can be closer to the man he so rudely waved off not too long ago.

“I can’t do this anymore,” Jessica whines as she drops the kettlebell on the floor with a dull thud. Rubber mats line the gym floors, but that doesn’t mean she should abuse the equipment.

“You got this, c’mon, just one more round.” Chris gives her a pat on the arm, his smile splitting wider.

“I already did two sets. I’m done.”

“I know you have one more in you.”

“I said I’m done.” Jessica crosses her arms, and Tom wants to go over there and punch her in the face. It’s a ten-pound kettlebell, and she swung it ten times.

Irritation creeps back like a toxic lover, fills his head with voices like buzzing insects, and Tom turns his music back on. Chris’ lips move, his expression soft and encouraging as he picks up the kettlebell. Tom’s glad he can’t hear whatever bullshit Chris is spewing as he tries to convince the lazy cow she’s worth the effort, that she’s doing this to better herself.

Chris is a sucker if he can’t see she’s beyond hope, and no one is that naïve. Chris works at the gym, it’s his job to appear friendly and interested so he can get business. So he can get paid. Tom’s not sure if he’s more angry at Chris’ superb acting skills or mad at himself for falling for it.

Tom slides more weight onto his barbell and focuses on his workout. The usual lull of repetitive hard work soothes his nerves as adrenaline courses through him, and before long, his legs are shaking and he’s drenched in sweat. Lifting heavy is as good a channel for his anger as any, but his annoyance increases tenfold when he glimpses Jessica and her pink leggings walk out the front door. He watches Chris scribble something down at the front desk, then that blinding smile beams in his direction again, and Tom’s knees buckle.

Chris rushes over, face a mask of concern as he takes the bar off Tom’s shoulders and drops it on the floor. “You okay?”

Tom yanks his headphones out and takes a sharp breath. “I’m fine.”

“Really? What were you thinking, adding this much weight without a proper warm-up?”

Was Chris watching him the whole time he was with Jessica? The thought warms him, chases the cool flames of anger from his limbs, and he catches himself falling for that wide smile a second time. Annoyed, Tom says the first hurtful thing that comes to mind, “You know she’s not coming back, right?”

Chris blinks, and it’s another heartbeat before the confusion in his eyes is replaced by something Tom can’t quite read. “She’ll be back.”

“Doubt it. She’s not worth the effort, anyway.”

“How would you know?”

“She doesn’t care.”

“And you do?”

“About myself? Absolutely.”

Chris cocks an eyebrow. “And others?”

“Not my problem.”

“Are people just problems to you?” Chris crosses his arms, and the look on his face is like a knife twisting in Tom’s gut.

“No”—Tom grabs his towel and wipes his face—“I have to give a shit about them first.”

Chris chortles as if Tom’s words are the funniest things he’s heard all week and shake this head. Wisps of blonde hair loosen from his hair tie and fringes his face, and Tom forgets how to breathe when Chris’ intense gaze pins him to the floor. “You don’t have to give a shit about someone to care about them.”

“So, you’re telling me you genuinely give a crap about every person who walks through those doors?” Tom should cut his losses and leave, should forget about this blond giant and his Oscar-winning customer service skills, but he can’t seem to walk away.

“I do,” Chris says. “And, yes, I care about you. Why you’re here, what you do for a living. I care about every person who walks into my gym, and I want to help them however I can.”

“Well, then you’re a bigger idiot than I thought.”

“Perhaps.” A pause, and Tom shrinks in the silence. “What are you so afraid of?”

“Nothing.” _Everything_.

“Everyone’s afraid of something.”

“I’m not everyone.”

“No, you certainly are not.” Chris narrows his eyes, and the wash of blue is more crushing than turbulent waves. Tom drapes his towel over the back of his neck and opens his mouth, but Chris beats him to the punch. “She’ll be back. Because I have faith in her.”

“Christ, you really are a self-righteous asshole, aren’t you?” Tom isn’t sure why he’s so worked up over this, why the words of a near stranger should aggravate him so. Who the hell asks a stranger what they’re afraid of? What kind of answer does Chris expect from him? If Tom is being honest with himself, it’s not the question that bothers him, but the piercing blue eyes—they seem to see too much—drilling into his soul that have him on edge.

Pain flashes behind Chris’ eyes, so fleeting Tom almost thinks he imagined it. God, he really is good at this. Without a backward glance, Tom grabs his duffle and heads for the locker room, and the voices in his head threaten to drown him.


	2. Chapter 2

The routine is familiar. Yet, he’s on edge, and a skittering buzz hums beneath his skin. 

Tom places the brush on the table and blinks into the mirror. The hint of glitter in the dark eyeliner brings out the green in his blue eyes. He tilts his face left, then right, making sure every imperfection is hidden by foundation and concealer. The dusting of blush blends out the sharpness of his cheekbones, and the shine of lip-gloss plumps his lips like summer-ripe fruit. 

Chris occupies his thoughts, demands his every waking moment until Tom yearns for the lull of illicit drugs so he can hide in a state of inebriation. But he can’t do that, not when he’s expected to go on stage in less than five minutes. Tom closes his eyes and traps the next lungful of air in his chest until he’s lightheaded and his fingers throb. Until spots dance in the inky blackness behind his eyelids.

It is the sure way he acted—the confidence bordering arrogance when he said the woman would be back—that grates on Tom. As if the man truly believes he has the power to help every life he touches. It’s absurd. 

Tom sighs and takes a few more deep breaths, and his mind clears with each slow exhale. He blinks—a slow flutter of eyelids—and a different sort of buzz surges through him.       

His reflection is one of glowing skin and dark, smokey eyes. Of mystery and beauty. One corner of his lips curls as he dips his chin, and his reflection stares at him with lidded eyes, long lashes fanning his cheeks with every slow blink. Tom takes slow, measured breaths, and with each exhale, he breathes out a piece of himself until Tom is no more.

He’s the entertainer. The flirtatious mechanic with the greased up shirt. The seducer with the wicked smile. Tom checks his makeup one last time before leaving his dressing room. With every step closer to the front of the theater, his mind quiets, the voices retreat to make room for the thrill of the dance, and he steps out from behind the curtains and onto the wide stage.  

The spotlight sears his skin, the stage solid beneath his feet. Voices. People. Throngs of them. Their heads pivot toward the rustle of curtain, and eyes turn to him like bees drawn to the sweet nectar of spring flowers. The hushed murmur of the crowd fades, making way for the soft whine of a single violin. The music carries Tom’s feet across the stage, each note a stepping stone until he stands at the centre of everyone’s attention. 

The crowd disappears behind the slow droop of his eyelids, and when he opens them again, the spotlight stops blinding him. His gaze sweeps the crowd, lips curl in a seductive grin, and his tongue darts out to taste the air in a teasing flick. For the next little while, he ceases to exist. For the next little while, he’s free. 

The music picks up, and Tom winks before darting toward the pile of tires stacked on the stage. With deft fingers, he grips the rubber, takes a deep breath, then raises his feet into the air. The crowd—mostly women—gasps in delight, and Tom’s chest swells. His body shifts through each position with ease, muscles taut and straining as he performs complicated handstands. The music ebbs and flows with his movements, and when he drops on his feet, it turns soft and lighthearted. 

Tom wipes a hand across his brows with dramatic flare, then stares at a grease stain on his shirt in mock surprise. This is the part of the show where he gets to interact with the crowd, to tease and entice. Become an object of desire, a fae creature of light and air, forever unattainable. Mischievous fingers dip beneath the hem of his tank top, tease the fabric until the catcalls and whistles drown out the music. 

The tank top stretches over his stomach, pauses, and then disappears with a sweep of his arm. His chest heaves, cool air chills his sweaty skin, and he glances across the front row. A flash of long, blond hair, familiar shocking blue eyes, and Tom forgets how to breathe. 

Chris is here.

Chris is here, sitting in the front row, eyes sparkling. 

Tom forces his lungs to move and tries to breathe through the clash of emotions surging through him. Dread, intrigue, annoyance, but above all, elation. A sense of power. Control. Chris is staring at him, lips parted, cheeks glowing with the faintest dusting of pink, and the glint is back in his eyes. Their eyes meet, drawn to each other like a daisy to the sun, and Tom can almost feel the blue lightning in Chris’ eyes zap across his skin. 

The music picks up, electric guitar yanking him out of his stupor. Tom swallows and runs his hands across his chest, fingers spread wide and inching toward the waistline of his baggy jeans. The second half of his dance is more acrobatics, choreographed to showcase his athletic abilities and the lithe lines of his well-conditioned body. Tom loses himself in the movements, muscle memory overriding thought as he flows with the music, limbs weaving through the notes. 

He ignores the piercing blue eyes trained on him, convinces himself Chris is just another fish in the ocean of his audience. Until he’s back on his feet and the music is playful once more, and his hands are on the button of his jeans, digits shaking as he flicks it open. The scrape of the zipper shudders through him, and his skin tingles. 

Chris is in the audience, watching, expectant, tip of his tongue dragging across his bottom lip. So close his gaze is like a tangible caress. Tom shimmies out of his jeans, skin burning with more than the heat of the stage lights, and his lacy silk panties are too thin. Too small. Too evocative.   

The rest of the dance passes in a blur of bright lights and blaring music. Tom’s arms shake with fatigue, his skin slick. He’s hot and cold and buzzing when the music peters into cheers. The applause is muted, the crowd one giant mosaic of shapes. Only one man is in razor sharp focus, but Tom ignores him, ignores the inexplicable pressure in his chest, and takes a bow. 

“Ladies and gentlemen, another round of applause for the sexy, sensual, spectacular Frost King.” The announcer’s voice booms over the music. Tom takes another bow—still ignoring Chris—and blows a few kisses into the crowd as he retreats backstage. “Coming up next, please welcome the sweet and sultry…”   

The announcer’s voice blurs into a drone, drowned out by the group of dancers in the small backstage area as they gossip and stretch, waiting for their turn to go on stage. The mechanic routine was his last of the evening. Tom waves at his coworkers and ducks into his private dressing room. Being the most popular and in demand dancer has its perks, no matter how small. 

He removes his makeup with cotton pads, changes into sweatpants and a hoodie, and ducks out the back of the theatre and into the alleyway. The air is pregnant with pungent smells: frying grease, stale urine, and the distinctive smell of west coast rain. Tom pulls out a blunt and a lighter from his pocket and turns his back to the crisp night breeze as he holds the flickering flame to the tip of the smoke. 

“Trying the local delicacies?” Chris steps from the shadows, hands tucked in his pockets, lips tugged into a crooked smile. 

“Can’t visit Vancouver and not sample some BC bud.” Tom takes a long drag and holds the smoke in his lungs until his throat itches. He looks up, eyes finding Chris’ bright blue gaze under the yellow street lamp, and blows out a slow stream of smoke. The effects are almost immediate, and the jaggedness beneath Tom’s skin loses its edge. 

He offers the blunt to Chris, and the man hesitates before pinching it between his thick fingers. Watching Chris’ cheeks hollow as he takes a hit is mesmerizing, and the world slows to a crawl. Chris’ eyelashes flutter in the gentle evening breeze, shielding the glow of his blue eyes as he takes another drag. The alley fades into blurry shapes, and Tom leans against the metal door, drinking in the blond giant mere feet away from him.

“I didn’t mean what I said—”

“I love the way you dance—”

Tom chuckles and takes a hit. He doesn’t know where the apology came from, decided a long time ago he was done with regret, but the look on Chris’ face is worth it. Chris’ eyes widen, a slow smile stretches from ear to ear, and he seems to have taken an interest in his boots. He kicks at an imaginary rock, and when he looks up, his cheeks are rosy, his expression soft.   

The city lights glitter around them. Cars rush past like the passage of time—uncaring—but the hum of engines and tires grinding on asphalt is muted. The burn of lactic acid fades as his muscles relax under the caress of marijuana, and the world swirls in fuzzy colours. He’s not a chronic smoker, but traveling with his pack of exotic dancers means Tom’s been exposed to his fair share of uppers and downers, and he’s not so much stoned as he is mellow and content.

Tom passes the smoke to Chris, who passes it back after a long drag, and they stay inside their bubble of hazy fog until the blunt is burnt to a stub. Chris takes up the space beside Tom, head leaning against the metal door as he stares up into the starless sky. 

“So, as I was saying. I love how you dance.” Chris’ voice slips beneath the silence and breaks it with gentle hands. He rolls his head toward Tom and grins, and the corners of his eyes crinkle in that way that Tom finds so incredibly distracting.   

“Get in line,” Tom says with a chuckle. He drops the butt on the ground and grinds it out under his right tennis shoe. 

“You get lots of admirers?”

“You could call them that.” 

“What do you call them?”

“Fuck’n chucks.”

Chris’ full-bodied bellow of a laugh shatters the stunned silence between them. “Poetic,” he wheezes between dying chuckles.

“That’s me, Tom the Poet.” 

“Tom,” Chris says, tentative, and Tom warms up to the way his name rolls off Chris’ tongue. “Don’t think I’ve properly introduced myself. I’m Chris.” 

Tom takes Chris’ offered hand. Chris’ handshake is firm and the dry heat of his palm seeps into Tom’s skin. “Hello, Chris.”

“So, Tom, tell me”—Chris holds onto Tom’s hand a fraction longer before withdrawing—“how did you get into dancing?”

“Did ballet when I was a kid.” Tom tucks his hands into his pockets and tries not to notice the absence of Chris’ warmth. 

“And Burlesque?”

“Got introduced by a friend.” Tom tears his gaze away from Chris’ enticing smile and stares into the brightly lit streets of Vancouver. 

“How long have you been doing it?”

“A few years. Think I’m coming up on five.”

“That’s impressive.”

“Maybe.” Tom shrugs. “It allows me to travel, and I don’t have to worry about picking the next destination.”

Chris hums and stares into the distance. “Don’t you miss your home? Your family?” 

“I don’t have a family. Not anymore.” The words slip out, and for the second time tonight, Tom regrets. The bitterness of his admission pops his drug-induced bubble, and the cacophony of the city rushes in and crushes him. He never mentions his family, and it’s been a long time since Tom has dropped his guard, let alone around a near stranger. He wants to blame the weed, but Tom knows it has nothing to do with drugs. And that terrifies him. 

“Oh.” Chris tenses beside him, unease flitting across his handsome features. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

“Not your fault,” Tom cuts in, voice sharper than he intended. He knows where this conversation is going, has gone down this road many times before he closed that chapter of his life. It’s been years since he’s dealt with the pitying looks and insincere apologies, and Tom isn’t ready to relive that. Not now. Not ever. “It’s in the past, and you didn’t know.”

Chris seems to see right through him, and there’s a sliver of understanding hidden behind all that turbulent blue. Tom’s chest seizes, and a part of him wants to ask, but the bigger part of him, the part that wants to escape Chris’ magnetic hold, nips that blooming curiosity in the bud. Chris doesn’t care about him, and Tom certainly doesn’t give a shit about a man he’s only just met. Chris likes the way Tom dances, and Tom might have offered Chris a private show if things hadn’t taken a turn toward Shitsville. 

But now Tom can’t get away from Chris fast enough. 

“Anyway, I should get back,” Tom says, avoiding Chris’ eyes as he turns and lays a hand on the door handle.  

Chris steps away from the door, and Tom is half way in the building when Chris asks, “Will I see you at the gym tomorrow?”

Tom doesn’t answer as the door clicks shut behind him.  

===

Warm breath tickles the back of his neck, lips and tongue leaving a wet trail across his bare shoulder. Tom reaches behind him and grasps a fistful of short hair. He whimpers, his hips canting back, searching, grinding. Desperate. 

“Fuck, keep doing that and I’m gonna—” the stranger hisses against his skin, teeth scraping and nipping, fingers digging into Tom’s hips to hold him still. Tom’s grip tightens. A strong hand closes around the back of Tom’s neck, shoves his face into the mattress. “God, you’re so fucking—” 

“Just shut up and fuck me,” Tom grits into rumpled sheets and wiggles his hips, grinding his ass against the hard length resting between his ass cheeks.  

“Didn’t take you for a desperate cock slut.”

“Didn’t take you for a goddamn pussy.” 

The stranger growls, fingers tightening around Tom’s neck until he’s sure there will be bruises. Tom doesn’t care, there’s concealer for that, and sometimes the audience likes a little naughty bruising on him. The slick drag of flesh leaves him aching, then the thick cock drives into him in one swift thrust and fills that void within him with a violent fullness. 

He didn’t plan to hit up the club a block from his temporary apartment, didn’t plan to pick up the first good-looking stranger who bought him a drink. But the memories unlocked by the slip of tongue with Chris threatened to drown him, and the hopeful look on Chris’ face as Tom slipped away left him unsettled. 

The man’s hands roam Tom’s back, settle on his shoulder blades, and pin Tom down with his full weight as his hips snap against Tom’s ass. The room retreats, leaving behind nothing but the sounds of harsh breathing and skin slapping skin. Tom’s legs tremble, and his hole burns with cleansing friction. He needs the pain to chase away the memories. Needs it to hurt to find equilibrium. 

When the nameless stranger shouts his pleasures into the small, confined space of Tom’s bedroom, Tom finds his lungs again and breathes a sigh of relief. He sees the man out without so much as a goodbye and crawls into bed with his cock still swollen, leaking, and very much neglected.  

  
  



	3. Chapter 3

The presents have been arriving every day for four days. Tonight, it’s an edible bouquet of fresh fruit cut into flower shapes. 

“You gonna eat all that?” Sasha hooks her chin over Tom’s shoulder and plucks a grape from the giant, sweet-smelling bouquet. 

“God, no.” Tom picks up the card tucked between the wrapping paper, but Sasha plucks it out of his hand and twirls away before he can catch her. “Hey!”

“To Frost King, hope your performance went well tonight. Love, your secret admirer,” Sasha reads the card with a sultry purr and darts in to pull a strawberry flower from the arrangement. “This secret admirer of yours, got any idea who it might be?” she asks before popping the fruit past her cherry-red lips. 

“Even if I did, think I’d tell you?” Tom yanks the card from her grasp and drops it next to the other three identical cards written in the same handwriting. 

The night after Tom’s exchange with Chris behind the theatre, a bouquet of fresh flowers waited for him in his dressing room. Since then he’s received an arrangement of cupcakes, chocolates, and now flower shaped fruit. With how the cards are signed, Tom suspects he knows the identity of his secret admirer. But that doesn’t mean he wants to tell Sasha, no matter how close they have grown over the past few years. 

“You wound me, Hiddles.” Sasha clutches her heart, her puppy dog eyes crushing down on Tom with the weight of a thousand armies. 

“Good. After all the hearts you’ve broken, the world needs some karmic balance.” 

She pouts, but the effect is lost behind the laughing gleam in her eyes. “Check the back of that card, and don’t say I never do anything nice for you,” Sasha says before slinking out of Tom’s dressing room. 

He waits until the door clicks shut behind her, then flips the card around in his hand. A phone number, and Tom’s heart skips a beat. He has been hoping for some way to establish communication, and now that he has the number in his hands, Tom is unsure what he should do. 

He should call, confirm his suspicions and put an end to this ridiculousness. The other dancers murmur that Tom’s finally sweet on someone, and he can’t have that. He’s got a reputation to uphold. 

Tom’s thumb hovers over the number pad and freezes. What if it’s not Chris sending these silly gifts? What if it’s someone else? Will Tom be relieved? Disappointed? 

He puts the phone down and stares at the card, finding himself hesitating like he hasn’t done in a long time. He’s assumed it’s Chris, hasn't entertained the idea it might be someone else, and perhaps worst of all, he wants it to be Chris. Heat crawls up his neck and roiling nausea twists in his gut. This isn't the first time Tom has attracted a patron's attention, and it won't be the last. What makes Chris so special? Nothing. He's just another guy with too-bright eyes and an agenda. 

With a muttered curse, Tom pulls up the texting app and punches in the number. His fingers jab against the screen, a muted staccato of angry letters. 

_ You need to stop sending these ridiculous gifts. _

The response is immediate. 

_ No. Why haven’t you been to the gym? _

Gym. So, it is Chris. His chest deflates with a sigh of relief and giddiness fills the vacated space. He’s been going to the gym further away just to avoid those knowing blue eyes. Tom knows he’s being silly, getting hung up on something Chris probably doesn’t even remember anymore, but this isn’t about Chris. 

No, this is Tom’s own flavour of crazy and he knows it. 

The simple act of standing next to Chris scrambles Tom’s insides and messes with his head. Reminds him just how fucking lonely he is even when he’s surrounded by people. Being with Chris makes him weak, and Tom doesn’t need that. 

_ Found a new one.  _

A pause. Long enough that Tom thinks Chris has finally had enough of his briny personality.

_ Don’t tell me you’re going to that shitty golds gym. You know they charge your credit card even after you cancel right?  _

This guy just won't quit. Tom drops his phone on the table and drags his fingers through his hair, yanking on the tips until his scalp smarts. What does he have to do to get this asshole to stop? 

He grabs his phone and taps the screen in a blur of thumbs, then gives up on texting all together and dials the number. It rings once, twice, then a soft click. 

“You are going to Gold’s, aren’t you?” Chris accuses, and even the speakers on the phone can’t mute the rumble in his deep voice. 

“That’s really none of your concern.” Tom pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs, trying to ignore the fuzzy spread of warmth from his chest at the sound of Chris’ voice. 

“It is my concern when my clients are getting ripped off.”

“I’m not a client; I went to your gym once.”

“Once a client, always a client.”

Tom rolls his eyes and switches the phone from one ear to the other before saying, “Anyway, I need you to stop sending me things.”

“Don’t you like them?”

The  _ no _ is on the tip of his tongue, but the word refuses to leave his mouth, and it shocks Tom into silence. He doesn’t hate them. In fact, as soon as he guessed who was sending them, he started looking forward to them, much to his own astonishment.

“I don’t…hate them.” It's as much truth as Chris will get from him. 

“That’s great,” Chris says, and Tom can almost hear the smile in his voice. 

“That doesn’t mean I want you sending any more. People are starting to talk.” 

A moment of silence, and Tom imagines the crease between Chris’ brows. “I’ll stop sending you stuff on one condition.”

“Oh, please, this is so cliche.”

“One date. You can choose the place,” Chris continues as if Tom hadn't spoken. “When’s your next night off?” 

Tom’s lips curl without prompt, and when he catches himself grinning, he clears his throat. “Fine. Monday night. We’re closed Mondays.” 

“Monday night it is.”

“Gotham. I want to go to Gotham.” Take Tom to pick the most expensive steakhouse in town. 

There’s a hiss of breath. “All right. Gotham. Pick you up—”

“I’ll meet you there. Seven pm.” 

Chris sighs, but it sounds more like relief than exasperation. Huh. “Can’t wait.” 

“All right.”

“And Tom?”

“Hm?”

“Thanks.” 

And the line goes dead. 

  
  



	4. Chapter 4

The streets of Downtown Vancouver are slick with rain. Tom sidesteps a puddle and angles his umbrella to fend off the worst of the downpour as he picks his way along the sidewalk in his Fluevogs. Hand crafted leather with a tint of blue and inconspicuous stitching. They are his first pair of custom-made shoes and have been his favourite since he could afford to splurge on expensive things. 

Walking by a store with a giant display window, Tom turns to look at himself and straightens his sports jacket. His distorted reflection—speckled with imperfect little gems of rain —mocks him. The jacket is Armani, stylishly cut to show off his lithe frame, and the shirt underneath “hugs his pecs like a goddamn condom,” as Sasha so delicately put it. His dark blue jeans are simple, classic, and they cling to his ass and thighs in all the right places.  

Tom’s dressed to impress. And he’s not sure how he feels about it. 

Chris has been texting him regularly since their phone call, and each time Tom’s phone chimes, his heart does a somersault. They are silly messages about nothing important, but they warm Tom in a way he never expected. In a way that scares the shit out of him. But every time Tom ignores a text, the little icon at the top of his phone judges him. A reminder that Tom is being rude, even if rude is his default setting on a good day. 

Tom replies to every message, and the more he does, the easier it becomes. Until waking up to Chris’  _ good morning _ and sending Chris a simple  _ good night _ before bed become the most natural thing in the world. Tom hasn’t slipped into such dreamless slumber so easily in a long time. 

They have not texted at all today. Tom is equal parts antsy and upset, but he’s too proud to text Chris first. Perhaps it’s time to reconsider this whole pride thing. 

The walk from the SkyTrain to Gotham Steak House is short, but it takes Tom the better part of half an hour to get there as he stops and checks his phone every few minutes. Still nothing from Chris, and a small worm of worry burrows into his gut, ripping open a gaping hole of self-doubt. 

What if he’s not coming? What if he’s finally tired of Tom’s not-so-sunny disposition? What if he’s been in an accident? Tom doesn’t even know Chris’ last name. No one will know to contact him if anything happened. 

He will be stuck in limbo, flip-flopping between rage and anguish until—

The glowing sign of the restaurant sneaks up on him, and Tom skids to a halt at the sight of the red block letters, large and imposing and a few steps from being above him. He fishes his phone out of his pocket, thumb tapping the password to unlock it—pride be damned—when a familiar voice dissipates his cloud of panic.

“You’re early,” Chris says as he ducks beneath Tom’s umbrella. His hair is pulled into a ponytail, and the shoulders of his denim jacket are deep blue. The oaf walked in this rain without an umbrella? 

“You’re all wet.” Tom tilts the umbrella and eyes Chris with raised brows. 

“It’s just a little rain.” Chris smiles. A ray of sunlight. A shaft of warmth straight through Tom’s chest. 

Tom clears his throat and looks away. “You Vancouverites are strange.”

“And you look great.” Chris’ eyes rake along Tom’s body, pausing at his feet. “Are those Fluevogs?”

“Custom made.” Tom beams, unaware of the wide grin tugging at his lips until Chris is looking at him with a goofy smile on his face.

“Shall we go in?” 

“Will they let you wearing that?” Tom drinks in the way the denim sits on Chris’ broad shoulders, thick worn material moulding to the slope of his well defined muscles. Under the jacket, he’s wearing a simple white t-shirt tucked into a pair of well fitted black jeans, and his black sneakers gleam in the dim light of the street lamps. Chris is striking in his simplicity, and Tom is a damn peacock in his fancy coat.  

“Guess we’ll find out.” Chris ducks from Tom’s umbrella, pulls open the front door, and sweeps his arm in a grand gesture. “After you.”

Tom shakes his head, slipping his phone into his pocket as he steps out of the rain. 

The hostess takes their coats and Tom’s umbrella, checks their reservation, then leads them to a secluded booth on the second floor. The chair hisses a whisper as Tom sinks into the lush cushion, and Chris settles across from him, face still split in a wide grin. 

“Your waiter will be right with you,” the pretty brunette says with a polite smile. “Please let us know if you need anything.”

Tom watches her sashay away—her tight little black dress hugging the curves of her slim waist and rounded buttocks, leaving little to the imagination—and the heated tendrils of piqued interest tickle him. Being bisexual isn’t a burden; it’s a goddamn privilege, one Tom never hesitates to take advantage of. Except, not tonight. He glances at Chris and waits until the hostess is out of earshot before asking, “Are you always this happy?”

“Only when I’m enjoying myself.” 

Heat crawls up the back of Tom’s neck. “Right, and you’re enjoying this now?”

“Absolutely. What’s not to enjoy?”

“I’m not exactly the nicest person to be around.” Tom knows how he can be, has been told by past lovers and acquaintances just how much of a cactus he is. It doesn’t bother him as much as he thinks it should, but he doesn’t have the time or energy to make nice in the face of stupidity.

“I’m maybe partially responsible,” Chris says, voice dropping low and serious as he leans over the table. “I’m sorry if I’ve offended you somehow. Mom always says I don’t think before I speak, and sometimes I can be…blunt.” 

Tom blinks, mouth hanging open as words escape him. It’s another few seconds before he collects his brain. “Um, okay?”

Chris’ lips part, the tip of a wet tongue darts across, but whatever he plans to say is cut off by the arrival of their waiter.

“Good evening, gentlemen,” the man in the starched white uniform says as he fixes a white cloth napkin draped across his forearm. “My name is Steve, and I’ll be your waiter. May I start you with something to drink?”

“Whatever pale ale you have on tap,” Chris says. 

“And for you, sir?” 

“I’ll have the Red Breast, double, neat.” 

“Excellent choices.” Steve nods at them before walking away. 

Chris watches Steve’s silhouette until the man disappears down the stairs, then turns back to face Tom, a dusting of pink on his cheeks. “Anyway, just, I’m sorry if I said anything to piss you off. You know, at the gym and the other night, at the theatre.”

That was not what Tom expected. He stares at Chris, his brain racing to come up with an appropriate response, and he thanks the stars when the waiter comes back with a loaf of fresh bread. 

Tom grabs his butter knife and smears a generous knob of butter on a thick, steaming slice. He can count on one hand how many times a near stranger has rendered him speechless, and one of those strangers is Sasha, the red-headed co-star who has become his best friend. 

Chris’ obsession with him mystifies Tom. At first, he chalked it up to lust, a need to conquer the thing that’s just out of reach. Tom has always been that thing, just close enough that the ghost of his flavour lingers on the tongue, yet never attainable. 

But now, Tom’s not so sure. 

Chris is the most observant person he has ever met. Sinfully delicious and innocent. A walking contradiction that mocks Tom’s very existence. If anyone’s at fault, it’s Tom and his salty personality, his jaded disposition. His inability to see the world through the same lens Chris does, because being that trusting, that open, invites a certain level of vulnerability. 

Vulnerability that terrifies him. 

A pang of guilt punches through him, sudden, fierce, and it threatens his ability to breathe. No, Chris has done nothing wrong, and the apology—as sincere as the sun is nourishing—leaves a bad taste in Tom’s mouth and a worse sting on his soul. 

Tom puts down the butter knife, takes a bite of his bread (heavenly fluffy, just the right amount of chew, and that garlic infused butter is divine), then looks up to find Chris watching him with heated intensity. Tom swallows. “Why do you think you’ve pissed me off?”

“You went to a different gym—”

“My coworkers are going to the other gym,” Tom lies.

“—And the other night, behind the theatre, you seemed upset when I asked about your family.” Chris tugs on his neatly trimmed beard. “You seemed…anyway, I’m sorry about that, too.” 

“Stop apologizing.” 

“Ah—sorry—I mean—”

“Whoa, living up to your Canadian heritage, I see.” Tom takes another bite of bread and sips at his water, swallows the lump of raw emotion lodged in his throat. “It’s—I’m not mad at you.” That’s not a lie. Tom was annoyed with Chris, but he was mad at himself. For reasons. 

Tom doesn’t think Chris’ smile can stretch any further, yet it does, and he doesn’t understand it, only that its effect on him is magical. Like sunbeams on the beach. Like the smell of Mom’s cookies and the warmth of Dad’s embrace and—

He swallows hard—something sour stings behind his eyes—and wills himself to focus on anything but Chris’ infuriating smile. “I haven’t been to the gym because I’ve been busy with rehearsals.” 

Chris looks at him, blue eyes piercing yet soft, and when Tom doesn’t explain about his family, Chris doesn’t push. They glance through the menu, and Tom kicks himself again when he sees the prices. Chris seems like the old-fashioned kind of guy who will insist on paying for dinner. Sure, trainers make decent money, but he can’t in good conscience make Chris pay for his forty dollar drink and sixty dollar steak. Tom will pay for the dinner. Executive decision made. Chris won’t have a choice. Tom smiles to himself and decides on the rib steak. 

Steve comes by with their drinks, refills their water glasses, and takes their orders. When he leaves, Chris sits back, slice of buttered bread in hand, and says, “My brother loved rib steaks. Used to grab the bone with his bare hands and gnaw at it right in the middle of a restaurant.”— _ Huh? _ —“Mother would chastise him, but he always said there’s no way in hell he’s going to give up the best part of the rib steak for stupid table manners.”

_What—loved?_ _Past tense?_ Tom’s not used to being the fish in a fish out of water situation, and it leaves him speechless a second time tonight. His face must be doing some confused acrobatics because Chris turns his smile on Tom. Only, this time, the corners of his mouth twitch and the sadness in those blue eyes is palpable. 

“My brother died.” 

“Oh—” Tom gasps, and that familiar thing he saw in Chris’ eyes the other night comes back to haunt him. It wraps around them like a cloak, pulls them closer. Tom wants to reach out and take Chris large hand in his own, wants to wipe away the streaks of pain etched in the lines at the corners of Chris’ eyes and mouth. 

Chris plays with the end of his napkin and continues, “It happened years ago. But I get it.” 

And Tom believes him even if he’s not sure why Chris feels the need to share something so intimate. As if reading his thoughts, Chris reaches across the table and taps a finger against Tom’s knuckle. “I’m not—I don’t normally tell people this, especially not on a first date, and like I said, my brain to mouth filter is basically broken, but I feel like you needed to hear this. From me.” 

Tom hesitates, then turns his palm up and pulls Chris’ hand into his. He squeezes, but says nothing as he picks up his whiskey tumbler with his free hand. 

The Irish whiskey sits on his tongue, light smokey aroma fills his nostrils, and the sweet spicy hints of dried peels, ginger, and citrus coats his mouth. Tom floats on the fiery sip, lets his mind soak up the alcohol before processing Chris’ words. 

The heavy press of Chris’ fingers mimics the weight of his gaze and rivals the storm brewing behind those crystal blue eyes. They share a long, silent look, unspoken words hang between them like strings of pearls. Heat seeps through his skin where Chris grasps his hand, and with that heat, comes a wave of understanding, of an undeniable connection, and a spark. 

Their hands jump apart, and Tom’s palm smarts from the shock where Chris’ hand used to be. Chris smiles at him once more, has never really stopped smiling at him all night, and tension bleeds from Tom’s fingertips as he smiles back. 

Perhaps, they have more in common than Tom thought. 

The conversation turns lighter. Tom shares a few tales about the shenanigans they get into on the road, and Chris shares horrifying gym stories. Another round of drinks, and their dinner arrives on gleaming white plates. The steak is cooked to perfection, savoury, well seared crust and pink all the way through. The meat is a rich, melting cloud on Tom’s tongue, and he can’t help the soft moan that escapes his lips. 

Chris looks up from his dinner—New York strip—and his eyes gleam a darker shade of blue. God, Tom can’t get enough of Chris’ eyes. So expressive, so full of character, like windows into Chris’ soul. Right now, they’re turbulent like a raging sea, the pit of arousal widening with each passing second. If Tom squints just right, he can see golden streaks of lightning in the thinning halos of Chris’ eyes. 

Fuck. Since when does Tom Hiddleston sit in an expensive steak house and wax poetry about his date’s eyes? 

“Oh, by the way,” Chris says, waving his fork in Tom’s general direction and snapping Tom out of his stupor. “That girl, Jessica? The one you said wouldn’t come back? Well, she’s back.”

Annoyance slithers up his spine like slimy tentacles, but Tom ignores it. Instead, he waves Steve over and asks for the dessert menu.   

When Steve’s out of ear shot, Chris adds, “You were wrong.” He pushes his plate forward, places his fork and knife parallel in the four o’clock position, then crosses his arms, his smile smug. 

Tom rolls his eyes. “Really? You bring this up just to prove me wrong?”

“And to prove that she’s not ‘beyond help.’” 

“Yes, right. But you know you can’t help everyone, right?” 

“Maybe not, but it doesn’t hurt to try.” Chris picks up his pint glass. “Jessica wouldn’t have come back if I hadn’t done my best to help her.”

Jessica is the last person Tom wants to talk about, but now that she’s the star of their conversation, Tom’s earlier feelings of resentment rolls through him full force, only this time, his disgust is aimed at the man sitting across from him. “That’s just naïve. And stupid.” 

Chris’ smile falters, but he doesn’t let up. “Why?”

“Because.” Tom agitates with the corner of his napkin, all thoughts of dessert forgotten as his mood sours. 

“You don’t think everyone deserves to be helped?” 

“Deserves? Not everyone gets what they  _ deserve _ ." Chris of all people should know this. Something snaps. Tom’s vision blurs and shrinks, the edges jagged and bleeding red. “Did your brother  _ deserve _ it?” The words tumble out before Tom can catch them, and cold fury deserts him in the span of a skipped heart beat as guilt cuts into him like a hot knife. 

Stunned silence stretches between them, and Chris narrows his eyes. Tom squirms, but he’s frozen, pinned by the chill in Chris’ glare. “And what do you deserve?” Chris’ voice is soft, but the crackle of lightning between each syllable zaps through Tom. 

He wants to apologize, wants to tell Chris he doesn’t deserve the shitty way Tom’s been treating him. But the words stick in his throat like flies on a trap, and Tom panics. “We’re done here.” 

Tom doesn’t remember leaving the restaurant, doesn’t remember how he got back to his apartment drenched like a drowned rat, umbrella closed and forgotten in his hand. 

_ And what do you deserve? _

Nothing. Tom doesn’t deserve a damn thing, not when all he could do was watch as his brother shrivelled and faded into nothing but a husk. With a growl he flings the umbrella across the room, but the dull thud as it bounces off the wall brings him no satisfaction. 

No one wanted him; no one cared. 

Tom strips out of his wet clothes and pulls on fresh jeans and a t-shirt. He glares at the mirror and his reflection sneers at him in return. Worthless. Useless. All he’s good for is a nameless romp in the sheets. Tom grins then, and the room seems to grow cooler when his reflection returns the sinister smile. 

Without his umbrella, Tom heads back into the rain in his fancy Fluevogs and eats the distance between his apartment and the club in long strides.  

 


	5. Chapter 5

“Frown any harder, and your face’ll get stuck like that,” Sasha chides as she slips off Tom’s lap. She’s still wearing her costume from the closing dance—a crimson brassier with silk tassels hanging off the apex of the breast cups and red, ruffled bloomers—and leans close to the mirror as she wipes off her makeup with a wet towelette. 

“Why do you use those things?” Tom takes the flimsy sheet from her hand, then pours a generous amount of makeup remover on a thick stack of cotton pads. He grabs her by the waist, turns her to face him, and arranges her legs until she sits astride his lap before rubbing the saturated cotton in gentle circles against her forehead. “You know they’re awful for your skin, right?”

“Why do you keep them in your kit then, silly? My skin is fine, thank you,” she says, but doesn’t fight him as he removes blush and foundation from her cheeks. “What’s not fine is your mood. What’s eating you?” Tom ignores her and focuses on wiping eyeshadow from one eyelid, then the other. When he reaches for Sasha’s lips, she grips his hand in both of hers and frowns. “Is it the secret admirer?” 

Sometimes it’s as if Sasha lives in his head. She sees everything, even things Tom doesn’t notice himself. Damn girl is too observant for her own good. “No.” Tom drops the cotton ball on the dressing table and leans back in his chair. 

“C’mon, then what is it?” Sasha cradles his cheeks, her soft palm warm against his chilled skin. He’s always so damn cold. 

“I don’t know,” Tom answers with a ferocity that startles him as he stares into Sasha’s wide green eyes.

It’s been three days since he left Chris with the bill at Gotham, and each passing day leaves him more agitated and guilt-ridden. He doesn’t remember much after he stepped through the doors of the club. The music was loud, bass heavy and all consuming. A tall, burly man and his petite girlfriend, a little white pill, and the rest was a psychedelic blur. 

He woke up naked in a strange bed—mouth dry and tasting like something had crawled in there and died—and his head throbbed. He stumbled out of the tiny apartment as quietly as he could, and for the first time in his adult life, shame threatened to swamp him. That shame lingers, slithers beneath his skin like serpents. 

Tom has no idea why Chris’ words still haunt him, each syllable is like being struck by a comet. People have said worse to him; he’s learned to let it roll off like water off a duck. But not this time. “It’s something someone said. I let it get to me.”

“That’s rare,” she says with a twitch of lips. “Dunno if I want to go kick his ass or send him flowers, if he’s got you this worked up.”

“That’s cold, Sash.”

“Payback’s a bitch.” She taps his cheek with a slender finger and kisses the tip of his nose. “In my shoes, you’d have said the same.”

“Touche.”

Sasha grins, triumphant, and wiggles in Tom’s lap, the tassels drawing Tom’s eyes to her chest. Occasionally, Tom invites Sasha into his bed. She loves the way he uses his tongue, and he enjoys being held by someone who wants nothing from him. Tom was in a bad place when he met Sasha all those years ago. If it wasn’t for her, he’d have drank himself to death in a ditch somewhere. 

Which would have been poetic. 

He thinks about asking her to go home with him tonight, but the violence brewing beneath his trembling fingers stops him. Sasha likes a gentle lover. Tom’s not sure he understands the meaning of that word right now. 

“Anyway, don’t think too hard on it.” Sasha slides off his lap a second time. She turns around and bends over, grabbing her silk robe off the floor, and Tom reconsiders taking her home. “You know how some assholes are. They think just because we take off our clothes on stage that we’ll fuck anything with a pulse.”

“I know,” Tom says. If Sasha thinks he’s upset over something a patron said, he won’t discourage her from that train of thought. Perhaps, when he figures out why he’s so hung up on Chris’ words, he’ll tell Sasha. “I’m gonna head home. Got a hot date waiting for me.”

Sasha pats Tom’s right hand and winks. “Be sure to give your right hand—I mean your hot date—a kiss from me.” 

“Get outta here,” he scoffs and spanks her ass as she turns to leave. “Don’t you have your own dressing room?”

“Yeah, yeah.” Sasha opens the door, then turns and gives him a knowing look. “Call me if you need anything.” Then she’s gone. 

Tom blows a slow breath and stares at the door long after it’s shut. The red haze of irritation disappears from the edges of his vision, and Tom can’t remember why he was so pissed before Sasha assaulted his lap.  _ Oh, that’s right. _ He looks at the scrapes and cuts on his knuckles—some already scabbed over—and remembers the fight he had with the stage technician. 

Asshole messed up his spotlight. Perhaps he didn’t deserve the tongue lashing Tom gave him, but no one calls Tom a prima donna without getting his teeth smashed in. With a sigh, Tom grabs his jacket and locks the door to his room. He waves at a few lingering dancers and staff, but doesn’t stop until he steps into the cool evening air. 

December in Vancouver is wet, but Tom prefers this over the slushy streets of New York City. He zips his light down jacket, shoves his hands into the pockets, and turns down Commercial Drive toward the SkyTrain. 

The train ride into Downtown is short, and it’s a straight shot from the station to his Airbnb, but Tom finds himself walking past the gated building. The night air is chilly, and there’s the ever-present smell of sea salt and rain. It’s a pleasant scent, refreshing and calming, and Tom can use a bit of both as he strolls along the near empty sidewalk. 

For as long as Tom can remember, he’s always enjoyed his own company. At school, he ate lunch alone. After school, he warmed up alone in the back of the dance studio until his classmates showed up, always in groups and always giggling about something. Tom found other children boring even as he finds people mundane now. The only person who could keep up with him was his brother. 

Casey was five years older, but he never treated Tom like he was a nuisance. Casey was boisterous where Tom was quiet, charismatic where Tom was withdrawn. He was larger than life, the sun Tom was drawn to but could never stare at directly, and they did everything together. 

Tom was happiest when Casey took him exploring even when he got them into a boatload of trouble. Like that time Casey convinced Tom to sneak into their neighbour’s backyard with him and they dug up the old lady’s dead cat. Tom can’t even remember why they did it, only Mom’s face when Mrs. Thompson—foaming at the mouth with anger—dragged each of the Hiddleston boys by the collar to their front door. 

Someone bumps into him, knocks him from his stroll down memory lane, and mutters a hasty sorry before Tom can turn and give them a piece of his mind. He opens his mouth anyway, angry words on the tip of his tongue, but the stranger throws him an apologetic smile and Tom deflates. 

Thoughts of Casey always leave Tom agitated, but it’s not the cause for his quickness to anger this time.

“Tom?” a familiar voice calls out, and Tom knows who’s behind him before he turns.

“Chris.” 

“What’re you doing here?” 

The large letters of Hemsworth Athletics glow yellow on the side of the building next to Tom. How did he get here? “I…just taking a walk.” It’s not a lie, but somehow the words don’t have the taste of complete truth to them, either. 

Chris stares at him, expression unreadable. He’s in a loose tank top, black gym shorts, and runners. Not clothes a sane person wears outside in this frigid temperature. Did Chris see him and run out from the gym? Maybe Tom hasn’t completely ruined everything with Chris just yet. Something eases around his chest, and his fingertips twitch with a flood of hopeful warmth. 

Tom inhales sharply as realization hits him between the eyes like a bug on a windshield. So, that was heartbreak he was experiencing the past three days. Tom’s not a fan. Not even a bit.

Chris tugs on the hem of his tank top, and the shift of muscles beneath his tanned skin seems uncertain. Agitated. 

“Hope you have a good walk,” Chris says at the same time Tom asks, “Are you free right now?” 

They blink at each other for a beat of absolute silence, then Chris chuckles and Tom allows himself a small grin. He has no clue why he’s here or what he’s doing, but his subconscious seems to have a plan, so Tom rolls with it. “If you can swing it, I’d like to buy you a cup of coffee. I can come back later if you can’t take a break right now.”

“The perks of being my own boss,” Chris says with a wide smile that lights up his eyes, “is I can take breaks whenever I want. Just give me a second.” Chris ducks into the gym, leaving Tom gaping in the cold. Minutes later, Chris comes back in a thick peacoat and blue jeans and the ugliest beanie Tom’s ever seen.  

“What’s with the beanie?”

“Beanie? Oh, my tuque?” Chris pulls the hat over his ears. “It’s cold out.” 

“It’s hideous.” Tom follows Chris down the street. 

“All right, fashion police,” Chris says and turns to stare at Tom with an arched brow, humour glittering in his eyes. 

Tom shrugs, but the corners of his lips twitch despite himself. “You never told me this was your gym.” 

“You never asked.”

Tom rolls his eyes. “Yes, it’s all my fault.”

They round the corner, and the Starbucks Tom frequents comes into view. Chris opens the door, and the sweet aroma of sugar and coffee hits Tom as they step into the warmth of the coffee shop. 

“What’re you having?” Chris asks as he rubs his hands together, his eyes glued to the menu board.

“You’re not planning on getting one of those atrocities up there, are you?” 

“They only have peppermint mochas during Christmas season.” Chris gives him a look like something between a kicked dog and an excited puppy. Tom rolls his eyes so hard he’s afraid he pulled something. 

The line moves at a crawl, but for once, Tom doesn’t mind waiting. He’s still unsure of what they will talk about once they have their coffees, but right now, with Chris shuffling in line next to him, Tom is at ease. Chris being close is like a balm on his soul, and Tom’s agitation simmers down into something negligible.  

When it’s finally their turn, Tom steps up to the counter and orders a venti peppermint mocha and a grand ristretto half sweet breve vanilla latte with extra whipped cream. 

“Wait, and you give me a hard time for a peppermint mocha?” Chris balks at Tom’s order.    

“I didn’t give you a hard time,” Tom says with a grin as he hands the barista his Starbucks card. “You assumed. Now, why is that?”

Chris’ cheeks turn a soft shade of pink, but he doesn’t respond. Instead, he walks to the end of the bar. It’s another ten minutes of waiting for their drinks, of standing just close enough that Tom’s hyper aware of Chris’ proximity. Chris watches him when he thinks Tom isn’t looking, and Tom lets him, enjoying the attention. It’s unlike the looks he gets when he’s on stage, or when he’s at the club, dancing like it’s his last day on Earth. 

Chris looks at him like he’s dreaming, like he never wants to wake up lest Tom evaporates into thin air. 

“Venti peppermint mocha and a grande ristretto half sweet breve vanilla latte with extra whip for Tom,” the barista behind the coffee machine calls out. 

Tom grabs both cups and hands the larger one to Chris. “Why do they always spell my name with an H? You’d think Tom would be quicker.”

“Maybe they take one look at you and think ‘he looks pretentious enough to have a silent H in his name.’” 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Tom glares at Chris. The big man throws his head back and laughs. It’s a contagious sound that warms Tom from the inside out. What an asshole. 

They find a small table at the back of the coffee shop, away from the prying eyes of other customers and out of earshot of the staff working behind the bar. Tom rolls the cup between his palms as he settles, and Chris yanks off his beanie before taking a seat, his shoulder length hair flying in all directions with static. How such a big, imposing man looks so utterly adorable and vulnerable is beyond Tom. 

Chris sips his coffee, and Tom nibbles at the rolled paper lip of his cup, unsure of what to say. When he left the theatre, he didn’t plan to sit at a wobbly table in a Starbucks across from Chris. He definitely didn’t prepare an apology speech. However, despite the lack of actual words, there’s a level of comfort in the silence. Some sort of understanding between them that passed the moment they sat down at this table, their knees touching in the shadows. 

“After my brother died, I left the family business.” Chris breaks the silence, and the sadness in his voice drives through Tom’s heart like an icicle. 

“What’s the—” It’s the way Chris says  _ family business _ that has Tom’s gears grinding. Hemsworth Athletics. Hemsworth.  _ Oh _ .

Chris watches him, patient as a saint, until everything clicks in Tom’s head. “You guessed it.”

“ _ The _ Hemsworth?”

“One and only.” 

Hemsworth Pharmaceuticals. Big Pharma extraordinaire. Holy shit. “You’re not kidding. You left  _ that _ to open a  _ gym _ ?” 

Chris’ smile is sad, and it disappears behind his cup as he takes a long drink. Tom sits back and squishes his half empty cup between his hands, rolling and kneading until the paper becomes crinkled and soft. He’s still not sure why Chris wants to tell him about his personal life, but the intrigue trumps the tendrils of suspicion tugging at the back of his mind. What’s Chris playing at? 

“It’s only money.” Chris drains his cup and mimics Tom’s slow destruction of his own cup. 

“Why?” 

Chris shrugs and stares at Tom from across the tiny table, yet the distance between them is wider than a chasm. “Now that you know my story, what are you running from, Tom?”

The cup freezes in Tom’s hands. Running? He’s not running from anything. The voices in his head flare in decibel, and Tom winces. He stares at the scabs on his knuckles, studies the pink edges with intense focus, and the usual lie he tells about his family is on the tip of his tongue and ready for take off. 

“I’m adopted.” Shit. He didn’t mean to tell the truth. Tom blinks as the wrong words leave his lips and hang in the space between them. 

“Oh?” It’s Chris’ turn to look surprised. 

Tom drains the last of his coffee in one long gulp, then crushes the cup before dropping it on the table. He slipped. He never slips, not even under the influence of drug induced euphoria. Not even Sasha, with whom Tom has shared many secrets, has gotten this small piece of his past out of him. 

A flutter of panic seizes his chest. Tom bites the inside of his cheek and forces a few breaths through his nose as he steals a glance at Chris out of the corner of his eye. He’s already said too much, but the way Chris is looking at him strips him bare and wraps him in a blanket of security, ensconcing them in a bubble of comfort. Suddenly, Tom doesn’t want to keep it buried anymore. “Adopted at birth. My mother—the real one—didn’t want me. Didn’t even look at me when they cut me out.” 

“Oh, Tom—”

“No, I know what you’re going to say. Please, just don’t.” Tom huffs the breath he didn’t know he was holding, and it comes out trembling like a newborn calf. He reaches for the crumpled cup and picks at the lid, wanting to focus on something other than Chris’ pitying gaze. “I didn’t find out until I was much older.”

Chris reaches across the round table and closes the chasm between them with a large, warm hand. He moves the cup and slips his hand beneath Tom’s, then threads his fingers between the gaps—filling up the emptiness—and squeezes. Tom stares at the thick fingers intertwined with his. Chris’ skin is tanned and warm, his touch a soft caress. His own hand is pale in comparison, fingers slender whereas Chris’ are thick and rugged. A man who uses his hands for a living, doing honest work. Instead, Tom just takes off his clothes and flaunts himself on the stage like a—

“Hey, Tom, you still with me?” Chris’ voice washes over him like a lighthouse beacon and Tom startles.

“Hm? Oh, uh—yes. Sorry,” he says and the corners of his lips twitch. 

“No need.” Chris leans closer until his forehead is inches away from Tom’s. The metal table tips under the weight of Chris’ elbows, and Tom sympathizes with the flimsy thing; it’s how he feels under the crushing weight of Chris’ kindness. “You've done nothing to be sorry for.”

Tom chuckles at that, a hollow, bitter sound that churns his insides. He’s done a lot of things to be sorry for. Being born, for example, and then that thing where he couldn’t save his brother. But he can’t say any of that to Chris, because Chris will tell him they were things outside his control. Things he shouldn’t feel responsible for. 

So, Tom attempts another smile, and says, “Thanks. Anyway. I looked for her, and I found her, but she was already dead.” Chris frowns, and his grip tightens until it’s just this side of painful. Tom sighs and relishes the grounding touch. “Since having me, she seemed to have made a string of bad decisions that landed her in a ditch. Fitting.” 

“What of your adoptive parents?” 

“What of them?” 

Chris seems to ponder on Tom’s question, and his lips move a few times as if he wants to say something, but he doesn’t. Just holds Tom’s hand like he’s afraid Tom will dissipate if he doesn’t grip tightly. Like he wants to absorb all the pain right from Tom’s chest through the contact of skin. Chris may have said nothing, but his face is an open book, his expressions are lines of text revealing his thoughts and emotions. 

He’s hurting for Tom, and that simple, undiluted truth is etched in every line on Chris’ handsome face. 

“It’s not so bad,” Tom offers with a hand squeeze of his own, and the lines around Chris’ eyes soften. “I like my life. Get to travel, see new sights. Meet new people”—he traces a finger across Chris’ palm and grins when Chris’ fingers twitch—“and experience new things.”  

“And what new things have you experienced in Vancouver so far?” The goofy smile is back on Chris’ face, only this time, Tom doesn’t find it so irritating. 

Tom’s surprised Chris is letting it go just like that. No prying questions, no badly concealed judgment. A simple acceptance that this is part of Tom, and the confidence that Tom will share if, and when, he’s ready. His chest loosens, and Tom doesn’t realize the giant sitting there until it’s up and left. It feels good; so good, in fact, that Tom’s good humour punches through him like an ecstatic specter. He smiles—a slow stretch of lips—and looks at Chris through his lashes. “The local food is amazing. The local bud is fantastic, but—”

“But?”

“But the local boys are a bit lacking.” Tom winks. Chris’ cheeks bloom pink like cherry blossoms. 

“Perhaps we can find you a local boy to show you around.” Chris’ tongue darts out to wet his bottom lip, and the plump petal glistens under the warm, soft light of the coffee shop. “Give you a tour of the city properly.”

“Perhaps, indeed.”  

 


	6. Chapter 6

They don’t see each other again until New Year’s Eve. 

Not that Tom didn’t want to, and from the frequency Chris texted him, it was obvious Chris wanted to see him too. Work was a downright nightmare when the theatre extended the company’s contract. More shows meant more admissions, more admissions meant a bigger bonus, but Tom was sick of the insane schedule leading up to Christmas. 

He had texted Chris on Christmas Eve after the last show, and the phone call that followed left Tom aching and wanting. Despite the lack of Chris’ physical presence, his voice was like a tangible touch along Tom’s skin. Who knew ex-rich-boy-gym-rat Chris had such a dirty mouth, and he knew how to use it, too. 

Tom twists in front of the full length mirror in his bedroom and smoothes his hands down the front of his button-up. The black material shimmers in the light as he turns—each gleaming black button a teasing wink in the dim light—and his jeans are fitted but comfortable. He glances at his blue Fluevogs sitting patiently in the closet, but opts for his brown leather sneakers instead.  

“Oh my god!” Sasha shrills from the living room. “Tom? What the fuck is this?”

Tom’s reflection frowns at him, eyes accusatory.  _ What incriminating thing did you leave around for Sasha to find this time? _

Looking at himself once more, Tom grabs his wallet and keys off the dresser and hurries into the living room. “What are you on about now?” His stomach drops through the floor when he finds Sasha flipping through his phone.  

“Want to kiss you so bad. Can’t wait to taste your mouth.” Sasha reads from the screen. If her eyes grew any wider, she’d turn anime. “Me too, babe, want to kiss down your chest, and bite your nipples and—”

“Oh fuck, Sasha!” Tom lunges for his phone as Sasha twists away on the couch, shielding the golden ticket to Tom’s eternal shame. “Give it back!” 

“No, dude”—Sasha curls in on herself—“who’s Chris?”

Tom tries to reach past Sasha’s protective arms, but she snarls and snaps at his hand. “Give it back and I’ll tell you.”

“Tell me first. Is this the secret admirer?”

“Phone first,” Tom says with as much steel as he can muster. “Don’t make me use force.”

“Oh, you know how much I love it when you do that  _ thing _ where you’re all gruff, or”—she looks down—“ _ I growl into your ear, and bite your earlobe as I reach into your gym shorts— _ ”

Tom does growl, his face burning so hot he’s probably radioactive, and tackles Sasha. He pins her with his thighs, then pulls her arms away from her body until he reaches the manicured fingers holding his phone. “I’m so going to get you for this.”

“There’s nothing in this world that can top this.” Sasha laughs, and the warm, throaty sound provokes Tom into a chuckle. 

He’s mortified, but he can’t ever stay mad at Sasha for long, not when she’s looking up at him with those pretty eyes and that knowing smirk. Besides, Tom can appreciate her mean streak, which mirrors his own. Sometimes. “I fucking hate you.”

“I’m offended that you kept this Chris from me.”

“I keep a lot of my lovers from you.” Tom falls back on the other end of the couch and slips his phone into his pant pocket, where his extensive sexting history with Chris is safe. 

“Oh, so  _ Chris _ is a  _ lover _ ?” Sasha shoves a dainty foot into Tom’s lap and wiggles her painted toes. 

“Yea—well, no.” Tom takes the offered foot and kneads the arch absentmindedly. “We haven’t actually slept together.”

“But you want to. Those texts—”

“Are none of your business,” Tom says with a biting snarl, more embarrassed than angry. “I—we—I met him at the gym. He saw our show during opening week. And yeah, he was the guy sending the gifts.”

“Dude, opening week, that’s like three lifetimes ago in Tom years, and you haven’t gotten him naked?”

“It’s complicated.” Tom gives her foot an extra hard squeeze and Sasha yelps. 

“Is he the reason I’m spending New Year’s Eve alone?” Sasha could have had her pick of parties, but she turned them all down. She’s always oddly subdued on New Year’s Eve. One day, Tom will dig the story out of her. 

_ Perhaps, if you offered something from your past, she might tell you hers.  _

Tom ignores the vicious voice in his head. Instead, he moves onto Sasha’s calf and squeezes the taut muscle there and says, “Sorry, Sash. I should’ve told you sooner.”

“No big,” she says, pulls her leg out of his grasp, and crawls into Tom’s lap. “Just promise me you’ll let yourself have a good time.”

“I always have a good time.” Tom swallows and looks away. 

“You know what I mean.” She cups his cheeks in her warm hands and turns him to face her. “You deserve good things.” She kisses his nose like she always does, then hops out of his lap and heads for the front door. Tom follows and holds her purse as she slips into her coat. She turns and musses Tom’s carefully combed hair. “Kiss him into the new year, got it?” 

“Yes, mom.” Tom pulls Sasha into a tight hug, hanging on longer than he intended, and whispers, “Happy New Year.”

Sasha says nothing, just smiles at him one last time before turning and leaving. The door shuts on her slim silhouette, and Tom’s left with an odd sense of melancholy. 

They met on New Year’s Eve all those years ago, outside some club in New York City Tom no longer remembers. She appeared out of nowhere, dragged him out of a ditch, and they’ve since become inseparable. Sasha got him started at the dance company, and they’ve always spent New Year’s Eve together. Tom, being the obtuse asshole that he is, never noticed just how small she became as the time drew closer to midnight. 

He glances at the clock hanging at the end of the hallway and curses, feelings of unease evaporating. He’s supposed to meet Chris at the theatre at eight. It’s quarter to, and Tom doesn’t want to be late. With a soft curse, he throws on his down jacket and dashes out the door. 

===

The train leaving Downtown Vancouver is packed like a sardine can. Tom swallows a lump of irritation as someone pushes into his back with a muttered apology. He fights his way off the train at his stop and straightens his jacket before taking the escalator down to street level. 

Commercial Drive is eclectic in its own quirky way, and the SkyTrain station in its namesake is no less unique. People set up shop—most illegal—along the streets, peddling secondhand books and clothes and art. Tom waits at the intersection and crosses the street toward the Rio theatre when the light changes. A tall, imposing figure stands by the locked front gates, one foot kicked up behind him against the door as he leans back, cell phone in hand. 

Tom’s heart flutters, and the sweet warmth of happy giddiness floods his limbs, heats his skin and cheeks until Tom wants to unzip his jacket. As if sensing him, Chris looks up and the smile on his face rivals that of the warmest sunbeams. Chris kicks off the door and jogs toward Tom. “Hey, you made it.”

“You promised the best pizza in town.” Tom doesn’t know what to do with his hands, so he sticks out the right one for a handshake.  _ Seriously, Tom? _

Chris stares at the hand, takes it in his warmer, larger one, and yanks Tom in for a hug. They part, and Chris’ cheeks are pink. Tom suspects it’s more than the chilly night air, and the thought tugs at the corners of his lips until he’s grinning. 

They walk down the street, shoulders bumping, elbows rubbing. It’s a comforting stretch of silence as they’re  cocooned in their own little bubble, and the city buzzes with life around them.

Turns out, the best pizza in town has been under Tom’s nose the whole time. Uncle Fatih’s Pizza is across the street from the theatre, and true to Chris’ claim, it’s hopping on New Year’s Eve. The line stretches around the block, and when Chris leads Tom to the end of the line, Tom shivers in the shadow of the squat building.   

“This line is insane.” 

“Told you it’s good pizza.”  

“So, where are we going after?” Tom asks and shuffles forward with the line.

“Secret.” Chris winks at him. Tom rolls his eyes and turns away to hide his smile.

They chit chat about nothing important as they move with the line, yet every word out of Chris’ mouth is the most captivating thing Tom’s ever heard. Before long, they’re in the tiny pizza joint, and Tom peers into the warmer at all the different pies the size of small coffee tables. There are so many he doesn’t know what he wants, but Chris leans over and points at one on the top shelf and one on the bottom.

“The spicy mushroom, and you must get the garlic.”

“Garlic? You sure? You’ll have to smell my breath for the rest of the night.” 

“I’ll take one for the team.” Chris ushers Tom forward as the girl behind the register looks at him with tired, expectant eyes. 

They order their pizzas—Tom gets the spicy mushroom and garlic, and Chris grabs a slice of potato pizza and ground beef with blue cheese—and step back out into the cold night. Chris takes a seat in one of the plastic chairs strewn by the front window, and Tom sits down beside him. 

The first bite into the garlic pizza is like fireworks on his tongue. Tom gasps, sucks in short bursts of air to cool the molten cheese and sauce, and moans around the explosion of flavours. He’s never had pizza like this, and he’s from New York, goddamnit. This is something else entirely, with the chewy crust and gooey cheese and white sauce and the  _ garlic _ . 

“Whoa,” Tom mutters as he takes another bite, and doesn’t notice Chris’ smiling eyes on him until he’s half way through the slice. 

“Good, eh?”

“God. This is amazing.” 

Chris brings each of his slices to Tom’s lips, letting him try the flavours before tucking in himself. It’s a small gesture, but one so intimate it leaves Tom reeling from the immensity of it. He’s been wined and dined in the past, usually followed by a night of good romping, but this is so much better than any fancy restaurant Tom could have picked.  

Tom slows down on his second slice. The pieces are gigantic, and he’s too busy watching Chris’ lips part as he takes each bite. Chris’ lips are pink and glistening, and Tom wonders how they would feel pressed against his own. Wonders how they would taste on his tongue, and what types of noises Chris would make when he bites down on the bottom lip. 

This is their second real date, but that’s two dates more than what Tom’s used to. He's the kind of guy who fucks first and never asks for a name. It’s easier to not get invested when he doesn't know. Easier to walk away. Yet, here he is, imagining what kissing Chris would be like when he should be doing it.

But something stops him, puts a tremor in his limbs, and he chickens out like he never has before. Chris isn’t one of those guys Tom picks up at the bar, isn’t just another faceless asshole he ‘fucks and chucks,’ as he so delicately put it himself. He wants to get to know Chris, learn about his family and his brother and his gym. And Chris wants to know about him. So much so that Chris lays himself bare, offering pieces of himself first to put Tom at ease. 

Tom is the master of one night stands, but…whatever this thing is with Chris? This is uncharted territory, and it terrifies him into inaction. Even the sexting and the one time they had phone sex was different. Instead of just getting off, Tom felt cherished, and Chris’ voice had been filled with awe and a tenderness that melts the ice in Tom’s heart. 

Chris continues talking, and Tom makes the appropriate noises in response, but he’s so content bathed in Chris’ warmth he lets Chris take over. Lets Chris guide him to the train, off the train, up the escalator, and down the street until they stop in front of a brightly lit glass dome in the heart of Downtown Vancouver. 

“What’s—oh—” Tom stares down the sloping stairs, and the icy surface of the skating rink winks at him. 

“Hope you like skating.” Chris takes his hand and starts down the stairs. 

“Never been.” Tom follows, a small tendril of trepidation winding up his spine. He doesn’t like making a fool of himself, and he definitely doesn’t want to in front of Chris. 

“This’ll be fun then,” Chris says and dials his blinding smile up to eleven. Tom groans as Chris drags him to the skate rental. 

The ring is just big enough to be daunting, and he stares at the crowd gliding round and round, people stumbling and struggling to keep their balance. They look ridiculous. Tom doesn’t want to be one of them. He turns to Chris,  _ I don’t think I want to do this _ on the tip of his tongue, when Chris hands him a pair of hockey skates. 

“You’re a size eleven?” 

“Uh—yes—” Tom stares at the sharp edges of the blades and worries at his bottom lip.

As if Chris can read Tom’s thoughts, or maybe his face is betraying his fear, Chris lays a large hand on his shoulder and gives it a solid squeeze. “Don’t worry. I’ll teach you.” 

His stomach settles, and the sour pool of fear dissipates just like that. It’s like magic, because Tom can’t explain how Chris can ground him so easily with so few words. “And you’re qualified, how?”

“Played hockey since I was in elementary school. Thought about going pro after college, but at the time I also wanted to take over the family business, so I quit.” When Tom raises a single brow at Chris, Chris continues with a snort, “Rich kid, remember?”

“Ah, yes, how could I forget?” Tom rolls his eyes before taking his skates to a bench. 

The boots hug his feet just this side of too tight, but the pressure is reassuring as he wobbles after Chris onto the ice. He clings to the edge of the rink, knuckles white, and the frictionless glide of his feet fuels the bottomless pit of despair in his gut. 

Someone cuts in front of him—arms windmilling—and crashes into the plexiglass wall. Chris, the bleeding heart that he is, glides on confident blades and helps the man up with a smile. He says something to the stranger, but Tom’s pounding heartbeat drowns out Chris’ words.  

This is ridiculous. Tom’s a dancer for crying out loud. He’s grace personified, and a little ice will not change that. He lets go of the wall and takes a step. The blade cuts into the ice, leaves its own distinctive groove as Tom shuffles forward. He grins, bottom lip tucked between teeth as he takes another step, then another, and then he’s flowing past Chris, who’s still helping the hapless creature find his balance. 

Tom’s grin widens until he’s beaming, until the chill of the air seeps through the gaps between his teeth. He’s not doing triple axels and flips, but he’s skating, and giddiness ripples up his chest as he turns to wave at Chris—

And it all goes to shit. His knees buckle, arms flail, a moment of pure, unadulterated panic, and the domed roof flies in front of his eyes in a glittering blur of glass and lights.  

Chris rushes over—the shavings from his skates dusting along Tom’s jacket sleeve as he crunches to a stop—and slips two large hands under Tom’s arms. For the span of a single skipped heart beat, Tom is weightless. Chris sets him back on his feet, then dusts Tom’s back and thighs. Anyone else, and Tom would think he’s trying to get handsy, but this is Chris, earnest, kind Chris who’s probably more concerned about Tom’s safety than trying to cop a feel.

“You all right?” Chris asks, his pinched brows sit on top of clear blue eyes flashing with concern. “Did you hit your head?”

“No, I mean, yes, I’m okay. No, I didn’t hit my head.” Tom tries to smile, but it comes out a pathetic wince when his back twinges. His ass smarts when he takes a tentative step. Well, that’s going to bruise. 

“Here, let me,” Chris says and slips one thick arm around Tom’s waist, the other taking Tom’s hand. He pushes off with his outside leg, and Tom glides forward in the cocoon of Chris’ embrace. 

Chris goes over the basics with him, how to shift his weight, how to kick off the ice for maximum speed with minimum effort, not that Tom will be speeding down the ice rink any time soon. His large hands are always on Tom, on his elbow leading him forward or clutching Tom’s hand as he gives Tom some space to explore on his own. They are never more than a few feet apart, with Chris flowing backwards and Tom stumbling after him. 

Tom loses track of time, loses his trepidation and self-consciousness as Chris holds his hands and drags him along the ice. Round and round they go, each circle a small notch of confidence until Tom feels like he can fly on his own. He doesn’t remember the last time he was so carefree, where his laughter rang easy, and his mask of seduction and sultry mystery slips off and gets lost somewhere in the gap between their bodies. 

“Attention skaters,” the PA system blasts over the music. “We are closing in fifteen minutes. All renters, please return your skates to the rental office no later than eleven. Thanks for visiting the Robson Square Ice Rink.” 

Tom blinks as if waking from a cat nap—refreshed but annoyed that it’s over. “Closing so soon?”

“Eleven PM isn’t so soon,” Chris says and reaches for Tom’s hand. “The staff would probably like to count into the new year with friends and family too.”

Tom resists the urge to roll his eyes. Of course, Chris is concerned with the staff’s partying privileges on New Year’s Eve. They skate to the gate, Chris stepping off first then turning around with an extended hand. Tom doesn’t think twice before taking the offered support, and he doesn’t let go until they’re seated on a bench. Losing Chris’ touch leaves Tom’s fingers twitching, and he glares at Chris’ skate laces as those thick, nimble fingers untie them. 

With a huff, Tom turns his attention to his own skates and ignores the molten heat in his cheeks as he tugs the boots loose. They return their rentals, and Tom wobbles. A small part of him misses the weightlessness of gliding on ice, misses the air chilling his scalp as he flew behind Chris, unfettered. 

Freedom. Like he’s never experienced. Chris gave him that, and Tom wants to kiss the great oaf for it. He doesn’t, not yet, because Tom’s afraid of ruining something pure with his sinful nature. Instead, he straightens his jacket and kicks the toe of his sneaker against the bottom step of the concrete bleachers and asks, “So, where to next?”

“There’s the New Year’s Eve fireworks down by the water.” 

“By the water, like, Waterfront Station?”

“Yeah. It’s crowded, but the fireworks are worth it.” The corners of Chris’ eyes crinkle, and Tom swoons a little.

“My Airbnb isn’t far from there,” Tom offers. “I can see the ferries in the morning. We can watch the fireworks at my place—what?” 

Chris stares at him with wide blue eyes, and the rouge in his cheeks turns a shade darker. 

“Oh, oh Jesus—no. I’m not—we’re not—I mean”—Tom rolls his eyes and suppresses a chuckle—“I have heat and a half bottle of wine in the fridge. And there aren’t a million and one people jostling in my living room. Fireworks, that’s all.” 

“Oh. All right, okay,” Chris says, his voice a little rough around the edges. “That sounds nice.” 

Chris scoops Tom’s hand in his when they leave the skating rink, and Tom’s world shrinks until it exists in the palm where Chris’ warmth pours into him. They walk along the well-lit streets of Downtown Vancouver, hand in hand, shoulders rubbing, the plumes of their breath mingling as they dissipate into the cool night air. The city thrives around them, but Tom doesn’t notice. All that matters is Chris’ presence next to him as they stroll toward Tom’s apartment in unobtrusive silence. 

At the front door—his key poised to slide into the lock—Tom panics. Did he put away the dirty dishes? He hasn’t even made his bed. Why does it matter? It’s not like they’re going to his bedroom. He hushes the voices in his head with a soft growl and pushes into his temporary home. 

The Airbnb is small but functional. A living room with a sectional couch, a TV, a small galley kitchen to the left, and a hall leading to the bathroom and bedroom. It’s not glamorous, but it’s efficient, in the heart of Downtown Vancouver, and cheaper than a motel room. 

Chris kicks off his shoes and steps into Tom’s space. There isn't enough room for the two of them, and it doesn’t matter where Tom turns, he’s within arm’s reach of Chris. He wants to reach out, to touch, to drag Chris down the short hall and into his messy, unmade bed. To make it messier. 

But Tom doesn’t, destroys the tracks so that train of thought can tumble down the cliff to crash and burn. Chris came here to watch the fireworks, and while they wait, they can finish Sasha’s wine. 

“Take a seat,” Tom says, and he’s glad his voice is steady. “I’ll grab the wine.”

Chris takes a seat, his knees bending in sharp angles. Tom comes back with two wine tumblers and a half bottle of a Malbec tucked under his arm. He takes a seat next to Chris, painfully aware of the neat three inches of space between them, and pours deep, red liquid into sparkling crystal. Across from them, through the floor-to-ceiling windows, the city winks in encouragement. 

The clock at the end of the hall reads twenty after eleven. The fireworks don’t start until midnight. Chris pulls up a radio app on his phone and mucks with the settings until he finds the station he’s looking for. “It’s for the fireworks. They’ll do the countdown and then play the music to the show,” he says and gives his tumbler a gentle swirl. 

Some pop song Tom doesn’t recognize drifts from the phone’s speakers. It’s nice, catchy, and it fills the silent space around them with a purpose. 

Tom takes a sip of his wine, rolls it around his tongue until the sharp sweetness coats his mouth. He takes a few more sips and asks, “So, you never answered my question.”

“Hm?” Chris hums into his glass and raises a brow.

“Why? Why’d you leave?” 

A beat of pop-song filled silence, and Chris takes a gulp of wine. “I want to help people.”

“Your family makes drugs that help millions of people every day.”

“Do they, though? It’s always been more about the bottom line for them.”

“If you can make some money while helping people, where’s the harm in that?” Tom tucks his legs beneath him and fumbles when his knee grazes Chris’ thigh. 

“The harm is when they refuse medicine to people who can’t afford it. To countries that can’t pay.” 

“You’re not giving your gym services out for free.”

“No, but my rates are unbeatable.” They are none lower. Tom checked. “I make enough to support myself, pay my staff, keep the facility running and the equipment working in tiptop shape. I don’t charge three hundred dollars for some antibiotics.”

“You can’t blame people for wanting to capitalize on something in demand.”

“I can, and I have, and I will continue to do so.”

“That’s naive.”

Chris pauses, stares out the giant window into the psychedelic lights of the night. “Maybe. But I need to believe the world isn’t run by greed. Everyone needs to believe in something.”

Tom’s breath freezes on the exhale, and it’s another long, stretched moment before he finds his voice. “How? How do you have faith like that?”

“My whole life, I grew up believing a singular lie, that my name meant saviour. That my family’s legacy is one of hope.” Chris shrugs, and the corners of his lips curve into a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “When I realized that’s not the case, I had a choice. I could let it break me, or decide to live a life where I can look in the mirror every morning and be proud of the guy staring back at me. I’m not sure if I’m there yet, but I’m a work in progress.”

“That”—Tom drains his glass and pours himself a second—“is the cheesiest thing I’ve ever heard.”

Chris laughs, and the chill in his icy blue eyes is replaced by mirth. “You don’t pull your punches.”

“Never have.” Tom nudges Chris’ thigh with his knee. He pauses, enjoys this small contact of warmth, and whispers, “Thanks.”

“What for?”

“For answering my question. For being…straight with me.” Tom finds his own sincerity terrifying, but he’s not ashamed of it, much to his own astonishment. 

Chris nods, but doesn’t respond as he finishes his drink and puts the glass on the small coffee table. Tom looks out the window, unable to hold the immense weight of Chris’ gaze. The room settles around them in monochrome—he forgot to turn on the lamp—and the glittering lights of the city are distorted into shimmering blots of colour. When did it start raining? 

Tom rolls the glass between his palms and shifts closer to Chris until he’s tucked flush against the hard plane of Chris’ side. One arm—thick as a tree branch—encircles Tom’s shoulders, cradles him against Chris like he’s something to be cherished. Tom shivers, and he mulls over Chris’ words. 

_ I could let it break me, or decide to live a life where I can look in the mirror every morning and be proud of the guy staring back at me. _

Tom’s no stranger to his reflection, but is he proud of the man staring back at him? Or is he still running? 

The music from Chris phone cuts off, and the DJ’s excited voice interrupts Tom’s melancholy. “Are you ready for the new year? Because the countdown is about to start—”

Chris shifts and sits upright, taking Tom with him so they’re sitting side by side but close enough Tom is still bathed in Chris’ glow. In the background, the DJ counts down, every number one step closer to a new year thate—for the first time in a long time—Tom looks forward to. Chris holds his gaze, traps Tom in a web of blue lightning, and his lips part just a fraction. 

“—three, two, one. Happy New Year!” the radio host shouts, but Tom barely hears it as his heart drums a solo. Chris is so close Tom can taste his breath. So close he finds his reflection lost in the depth of Chris’ enchanting eyes. So close Tom can almost believe that, perhaps, he can steal a tad of that unwavering faith.

The first burst of the fireworks is a splash of red and white and green, and the shimmering hues dance along Chris’ skin like fairies. His eyes glitter in the shifting light, the blue receding into thinning halos as the pit of his arousal expands. Tom falls headlong into that pit, swims in the galaxy hidden in the depth of those mesmerizing eyes, and he’s free. 

The living room blinks from one shade of light to the next, and the raindrops on the large window sparkle like precious gems. Chris licks his bottom lip with the tip of a quivering tongue and leans into the infinitesimal space between them. Tom’s breath hitches, and his body finally,  _ finally _ , wakes up and smells the roses. 

He lunges, lips hungry, but the kiss is soft like a spring shower. Tentative, explorative, and tantalizing. Outside, the rain pelts against the window, pitter-patter drowning out the thunderous pounding of Tom’s heart. Then, a streak of brilliant blue light flashes through the falling tendrils of the fireworks, and Tom’s eyes widen as a second branch of lightning splits the night sky.  

Chris moans, soft and desperate. One large hand roams along Tom’s spine, over his shoulder blade, and strong fingers wind through Tom’s hair. The tip of Chris’ tongue is no longer uncertain as it licks along the seam of Tom’s lips, bringing Tom back to the kiss he’s been dreaming of all night. 

Tom opens his mouth, lets Chris in without a second’s hesitation, and Chris’ taste chases away the sour tang of wine. Replaces it with a freshness, a sweetness, a flavour Tom gets tipsy on as he threads possessive arms around Chris’ neck. Thick, corded muscles twitch beneath Tom’s explorative hands, and then Chris’ weight is on top of him as his tongue sweeps into Tom’s mouth in earnest strokes. 

Chris kisses like the rest of him: fierce, passionate, and larger than life. Thunder ripples through the air, but the storm outside is nothing compared to the one brewing inside Tom’s tiny apartment. Chris’ hands are everywhere, touching, teasing, calloused fingers delving beneath shimmering fabric. And Tom, with his eyes shut tight, is so lost in sensation, in taste and touch and the desperate little moans rolling from Chris’ tongue and into his mouth, that it takes him a moment to register the shifting movement on top of him. 

A chill. An absence of scorching heat and the solid weight of dense muscles. Tom whimpers, blinks into the space between him and Chris’ heaving chest. “H-hey, big guy. Why don’t you come back down here?”

“I—we shouldn’t,” Chris chokes, and his voice sounds every bit as strained as Tom feels. 

“Why not?” Anyone else, and it would annoy Tom enough to kick the guy out. But this is Chris, and Tom wants to know how Chris ticks. 

“I don’t even know—we never talked—” Chris points at Tom, then at himself, and the blush on his cheeks is only dwarfed by the impressive tent he’s sporting, his legs splayed on either side of Tom’s hips. 

“I’d like to think…that we’re dating?” Tom offers, and he doesn’t acknowledge the twinge of fear in his chest. What if?

“Yeah?” Chris’ responding smile snuffs the twinge and replaces it with a flicker of hope. 

“Yeah.”

“I’d like that”—Chris leans down and brushes shy lips against Tom’s—“very much.”

“My room is down the hall.” Tom rolls his hips and swallows a groan.

“I have a client at six tomorrow morning.” 

“Who the fuck—” Tom splutters. “On January first?” 

“Some people take their New Year’s resolution very seriously.” Chris rears back onto his haunches and stares down at Tom with an unmistakable glint in his eyes. “You might find me old fashioned, but it would please me if you’ll allow me the pleasure of your company on a proper date.” 

Tom blinks.  _ The pleasure of your company on a proper date? _ What—Tom shakes his head and decides he doesn’t have enough brain cells to process this right now. Chris rolls off the couch and tries to arrange himself with failed discretion. Tom smirks and lets his full mast stick out with pride.

Now that Tom’s established who Chris is to him, and more importantly, who he is to Chris, the rock in the pit of his stomach drops, the void replaced by an army of butterflies. He’s not sure how much longer he’ll be in Vancouver, but he wants this with every fibre of his being. 

Tom walks Chris to the front door. Chris steps in for another open-mouthed kiss. “Happy New Year,” he murmurs. 

“You too.” Tom licks into Chris’ mouth for a final taste. When he pulls back, a tiny spark of static electricity zaps along his lips. 

  
  
  
  



	7. Chapter 7

Wind whips through his hair. 

A vast blackness that’s neither here nor there. It just is. Stars rush past him in blurring streaks. Nebulas of orange and blue and green and red fly by, then a puff of purple engulfs him before the blackness consumes him once more. 

He opens his mouth, lungs struggle for air, but there’s nothing. Just the swirl of blinking stars as he flies from one galaxy to the next, and the next, and the next.  

He’s falling. 

And falling. 

And falling. 

And—

Tom bolts upright, his naked chest heaving in the darkness as he sucks in gulps of air. Sweet, sweet oxygen fills his lungs and fuels his bloodstream, and it’s another panicked moment before Tom’s fists loosen around bruised sheets. 

He glances at the crack between the curtains—darkness tinged with street lights—and reaches for his phone and taps the screen into life. Five thirty-five in the goddamn morning. Tom groans, flops back onto his sweat-drenched pillow, and drapes a forearm over his eyes.

Swirls of colours blot the inside of his eyelids, and for the span of a sharp inhale, the dream comes back to haunt him. That’s what it was, a dream, a nightmare, nothing to worry about. Just breathe through it and go back to sleep. 

But he can’t shake this feeling that there was more to it than that. Like the texture of a word on the tip of his tongue, elusive but taunting. Like the beginnings of a thread jutting from his memories, but he can’t get a grasp on it. And he’s cold. So fucking cold. 

With a soft curse, he rolls out of bed and stumbles through the mess of dirty laundry to the door. He should buy a hamper if he’s going to stay here longer, and Tom plans to stay here until at least the end of his upcoming month-long vacation. 

He scrabbles along the inside of the bathroom wall and flicks the switch. Bright, fluorescent light spills into the modest bathroom, and Tom squints at his reflection. His eyes are sunken and his cheekbones stand sharp in the saturated light. With a muttered curse, he turns on the shower and strips out of his boxer briefs while the water heats. 

Steam billows about him in soft plumes when he steps under the spray, and the beat of water tattooing across his shoulders eases the numbing cold. Tom turns to face the cascading stream, leans back until the water slicks his hair and drums a soothing beat against his skull. 

Hot water sluices down his body like warm fingers along his skin. A gentle caress that chases away the demons of the night. He shuts his eyes against the spray, lets the water wrap him in a swathe of warmth, and remembers the gentle, warm embrace of a certain blonde oaf he’s grown quite fond of. 

Bright blue eyes the colour of a clear sky, and a smile that rivals the heat of a lazy summer day. Tom tucks his bottom lip between his teeth and hugs his shoulders, pretending the hands imprinting on his skin belong to someone much larger, grander, and  _ better _ than him. 

Thoughts of Chris are like bursts of lightning from his chest, sending heat along his limbs, and suddenly Tom’s burning under the constant splash of the shower. Water drips from the tip of his nose, explorative droplets falling in the seam of Tom’s mouth and sitting trapped there. A wet warmth not unlike Chris’ tongue as it traces lazily along Tom’s lips before Tom grants him access. 

They’ve kissed many times since New Year’s Eve, but Tom still thinks about that night when fireworks and lightning illuminated Chris’ body on top of him. Chris’ fingers, hungry yet gentle, demanding yet shy, as they mapped out Tom’s chest before Chris pulled back. 

What would have happened if he’d been a little more persuasive? If Chris wasn’t such a goddamn martyr? If the keener who booked a training session at six on New Year’s Day was just a little lazier? Tom sighs—a wistful sound that bounces off the layers of steam and wet tiles—and his body reacts to his salacious imagination.  

All traces of endless galaxies and falling stars evaporate, replaced by a driving need throbbing between his legs. Tom lets go of his shoulders and traces a hand down his chest. Wraps a fist around his straining cock and conjures up images of every single time they’ve made out since that first night with the new year as witness. 

Chris’ hard body pressing into him, large hands digging into his shoulders and holding him close. Chris’ tongue lapping up his desperate gasps and pleas, painting exciting new flavours into his mouth one purposeful lick at a time. 

Tom arches into the spray, his gasps carried away by the steam. It’s not his hand around his cock, but Chris’. Chris’ thick, calloused fingers gripping him, stroking along his cock with precision and a singular focus. Tom leans a forearm against the tiles and bites into the flesh as he drags a fingernail across the slit. 

Chris’ tongue lapping along his neck. Chris’ moist breath skimming along his shoulders. Chris’ naked chest pressing into his back. Chris. Chris Chris Chris—

Tom cries into his forearm, teeth sinking into soft flesh, unsure if he’d broken skin before the pressure in his gut explodes in a flash of white light. He strokes himself through the orgasm as water washes away the evidence of his self indulgence. 

When Tom steps out of the shower, his eyes are brighter, and there’s a glow about him that softens the sharp angles of his jaw. He’s warm, and his fingertips tingle with the aftermath of his release. With his towel wrapped around his waist, Tom returns to his bedroom, flops back into bed, and grabs his phone from the nightstand.

_ Morning, beefcake. How’s the first client? _

Chris’ reply comes immediately. 

_ I resent this nickname. She’s doing her warm up now. Why are you up so early? _

_ Bad dream. Less bad and more odd, I guess.  _ Tom frowns and shivers as the sensation of falling creeps back into his limbs. 

_ Huh. I had a weird dream too. You were innit, but you had long hair and you wore a lotta green leather :| _

Tom swallows the surge of bile rising in his throat. It’s bitter, and it sours his mouth. It’s just a coincidence. Dreams are stupid, anyway.  _ Long hair isn’t really my style. But I can dig the green leather ;) _

_ Of course you do.  _

_ Are you surprised?  _

_ Not the slightest. I gotta go. She’s just getting off the treadmill. I’ll come by after the show tonight.  _

Tom pouts at his phone, and a touch of jealousy twinges through him.  _ K. See you later. _

He waits. And waits. And waits. No response. Tom throws his phone into the bird’s nest of sheets and huffs. He gets it. Chris is working, but Tom doesn’t have to like the way women and men ogle his boyfriend. 

_ His boyfriend. _ The words are still strange on his tongue, but it’s a good strange, a comforting strange. A strange Tom wants to hang onto forever. 

He rolls out of bed—his towel loosens and stays behind in the mess of sheets—and digs into his clean pile of laundry. If anyone should ogle Chris’ fine posterior this morning, it should be Tom. He turns the pile upside down and frowns when he can’t find his gym clothes anywhere. Frustrated, he looks up, and his gym shorts and wick-away t-shirt are draped over the foot of his bed, along with a fresh pair of underwear and socks. 

Huh. 

===

When Tom gets off the stage—half naked and panting—Chris is waiting for him outside his dressing room. The other dancers shoot knowing glances at Tom, the corners of their lips twitching as they nod in Chris’ direction. No one has to say anything; Tom knows what they’re thinking, and yet, he’s not irritated by it. Just a fuzzy lightheadedness he identifies as contentment. 

Sasha sits on a stool next to Chris, her cherry lips and painted eyelids glittering under the backstage lights. She says something to Chris and they burst into laughter. Tom stops and admires the scene. His best friend, and his…Chris, most likely laughing at Tom’s expense. It’s something Tom never expected to happen to him, and it’s marvellous to behold. 

“What nonsense are you saying about me now, Sash?” Tom walks up to Chris and slips an arm around his waist. The taller man leans into the embrace as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. 

“Oh, nothing,” Sasha says and flips her hair with dramatic flare. 

“Bullshit.” 

“It’s true,” Chris adds. “She’s been on her best behaviour, I swear.” 

“Don’t you take her side.”

“Isn’t it my job as the boyfriend to take the best friend’s side?”

Sasha chuckles and hops off the stool, gives Chris a playful punch in the shoulder, and says, “I like this one. Can we keep him?”

Tom rolls his eyes. “Look, Kristen and the gang are leaving. Shouldn’t you go catch up with them?”

“And miss this?” Sasha arches a brow at Chris, and Tom wants to strangle her. 

“Yes. Now, go, before I kick your ass.”

Sasha glowers at Tom, then beams at Chris before grabbing her purse and running after the girls. The door leading to the back alley slams shut, and the room falls into a hushed whisper of ambient noises. A few stage techs linger to check their equipment, but everyone else has either gone home or gone off to party. 

Tom kisses Chris’ neck and shoves open the door to his dressing room. 

They’ve gone on a few more dates since New Year’s Eve, and every time Chris has been forever the gentleman: opening doors and buying Tom drinks and taking him out for dinners, both fancy and casual. They’d gone to the aquarium, the space centre, the suspension bridge. Tom enjoyed every second of Chris’ attentiveness toward his every need, but there’s one thing missing. Cute dates and holding hands and making out like horny teenagers are great, but Tom’s a red-blooded grown ass man, and he has grown ass man needs. 

Truth is, he’s been jerking off to thoughts of Chris before their dates to keep himself in check. However, since his trip to the gym this morning and watching Chris strut around the brightly lit space in his tight tank top and gym shorts, Tom’s been dying to get Chris alone. Has decided that tonight, he’s going to make  _ something _ happen. 

Chris has barely stepped into the dressing room when Tom shoves him against the door, pushing it shut with an echoing click. Tom closes the gap between them with a hasty step, his bare chest brushing against the soft material of Chris’ t-shirt as he presses close. Chris gasps, the sound soft as it flutters around the small room, and he looks at Tom with wide eyes. “Uh, hi?”

“Hey.” Tom nips along Chris’ jaw. Chris’ beard is soft against his lips, and as Tom moves lower, he latches onto the soft skin over Chris’ pulse. A hiss, a muttered curse, and thick fingers dig into Tom’s arms. 

“W-what are you doing?” Chris peels Tom off his chest and leans his forehead against Tom’s, putting the tiniest of space between them. His eyes are bright, too bright, and his lips glisten invitingly in the dim light of the dressing room. 

“Boyfriend-y things.” Tom darts in and steals a kiss. Grins when Chris groans. 

“Here?”

“We can do it on the other side of this door,” Tom whispers as a slow smile spreads across his lips. “I won’t mind.”

Chris inhales, his fingers tightening around Tom’s arms until it hurts. Tom swallows a moan at the pain. God, he fucking needs it—needs  _ Chris _ —so bad he’ll take anything. “There are people here.”

“The tech guys? They’re just about done.” 

“I—”

“Do you not want me?” Tom knows he’s playing dirty, but Chris is so close he can taste his breath, so close all Tom needs to do is lift a finger and he’s touching Chris. 

“Of course I want you.”

“Then let me.” 

Chris’ Adam’s apple bobs, muscles shifting under the skin of his throat as he stares at Tom for a long, silent moment. The room looks in on them, holding its breath just as Tom’s holding his own lungful of air hostage. Chris swallows again, the blue of his eyes disappearing as his pupils blow wide and inky. He nods, once, and the room huffs out a breath in laughter before turning its back.

Tom grins and lunges forward, lips crushing into Chris’ with bruising force, and sweeps his tongue into Chris’ mouth with abandon. Chris tastes like…Chris. There’s no other way to describe this unique flavour. It’s one Tom has memorized, and he craves it like a daisy craves the sun. When his lips are pressed against Chris’, his tongue lapping into Chris’ mouth, Tom is found. 

Chris gasps. His large hands release Tom’s arms and clutch Tom to his solid chest until Tom can hardly breathe. Tom pulls back, takes Chris’ bottom lip between his teeth, and tugs gently until Chris looks at him with witch fire in his eyes. “Jesus, Tom—”

“You think that’s good”—Tom runs the tip of his tongue along his top lip and grins when Chris’ eyes flutter shut with a groan—“wait ’till you see what I can really do.” 

Chris’ eyes snap open. His lips part as if he’s about to say something, but Tom doesn’t give him the chance. Instead, he drops to his knees and nuzzles the straining tent at the junction of Chris’ thighs. A breathy moan showers him from above, adds fuel to Tom’s fingers as he makes short work of Chris’ button. The scrape of zipper is deafening in the small room, and Tom steals a glance up to find a blanket of intense blue descending upon him.

Fuck, Tom hasn’t even started, and Chris already looks wrecked. His eyes are wide, arousal and disbelief warring behind those crystal blues. His lips are parted, and his pony tail has worked itself loose against the wooden door. Wisps of dirty blond hair stick to Chris’ forehead and fringe his face. Tom wants to watch Chris writhe in agonizing bliss, feel Chris come undone beneath his fingertips. Tom wants, and Tom will finally take it. 

Demanding fingers slip beneath the elastic of Chris’ underwear and pull infinitesimally slow. Tom licks his lips, eyes trained on Chris’ crotch until his cock springs free of their cotton confines. It’s thick, thicker than Tom dared to wish for, and the head is a pretty shade of pink and leaking. “Ah, there he is.” 

“Don’t talk to my dick,” Chris groans.

“I’ll talk to him if I want,” Tom says and arches his brows at Chris, then, just to prove a point, he licks along the underside of the shaft, eyes trained on Chris’ face. 

Chris slams his head against the door with a crack, and large hands grip Tom’s shoulders, fingers digging, nails scraping. The pain grounds Tom, and he drags his tongue along the shaft once more, from root to tip, then swirls the tip against the slit. 

The sharp, musty tang of pre-come fills his senses, and the raw taste of Chris coats his tongue. There’s a hint of soap, and Tom moans when an image of Chris showering—water sluicing along the grooves of his muscles—pops into his head, unbidden. Without breaking eye contact, Tom grips Chris’ thighs and guides his cock between his lips. 

The room shrinks into a single point as Chris’ erection strains and twitches on his tongue. It’s velvety soft and warm, and it  _ wants _ . Tom smiles around the girth, takes a deep breath, and leans forward, then pulls back. Forward, back. Forward, back, and each time he takes another inch, earns himself another soft, muttered curse.    

“F-fuck, Tom—” Chris honest-to-god whines, spreads his legs as wide as the jeans around his hips allow, and strains as if he’s trying to keep from thrusting into Tom’s mouth. 

Tom pulls back until the tip is between his lips. He swirls his tongue around the ridge, slurps against the spongy head, and says, “You can if you want. Fuck my mouth, Chris.” 

One trembling finger brushes hair from Tom’s eyes, then those thick, desperate fingers scrape along his scalp and thread around fistfuls of hair. Chris leans against the door, and Tom takes Chris’ cock back in his mouth, takes all of it in one swallow. Chris shouts, in surprise or astonishment Tom isn’t sure. He doesn’t care, not when Chris’ cock is finally lodged down his throat where it belongs. 

Chris snaps his hips forward, muscles quivering under tanned skin, and Tom  _ feels _ Chris’ need beneath his fingers. He pulls back, jaw slack, throat relaxed, and urges Chris on with a tug on his hips. Chris doesn’t need anymore coaxing, and his thrust forward is chased by a growl and a whimper. 

Silence descends upon them, drapes over them like a cloak as Chris thrusts down Tom’s throat. Swallowing will be interesting tomorrow, but he doesn’t care, embraces the soreness even because the throb will be a reminder of Chris taking his pleasure with him, uninhibited. 

Tom sinks into a soft place where his knees don’t ache, where he can watch Chris through lidded eyes and carve every inch of him into his memory. Chris is beautiful like this, arms straining, back bent, hair a mess, blissed and wrecked all at once, and Tom is…light. Tom has always been the taker during sex, and if his partner got off, that’s a bonus. All day, he’s thought about nothing but taking Chris to bed, taking from Chris all the sinful pleasures he’s been craving since the day he laid eyes on Chris. But here he is, on his knees, and he’s content giving himself to Chris.

Huh. 

Time stops marching in this tiny space they’ve claimed as theirs. Tom closes his eyes and loses himself in the slick slide of Chris’ cock. When Chris finally comes undone, it’s Tom’s name chasing the coattails of Chris’ soft, desperate gasps.  


	8. Chapter 8

It’s been a week since the dance company left Canada. 

A week since Tom decided to stay behind and take his month long vacation in beautiful Vancouver. Extending his stay at the Airbnb wasn’t difficult when he offered the owner fifty percent more than asking price. He’s not rolling in money as a burlesque dancer, but other than a few extravagant pieces of clothing and leather shoes, Tom doesn’t have a lot of expensive tastes. He only demands fancy restaurants to see just how desperately his dates want into his pants. Turns out, most of them are pretty desperate. 

Tom glances at his seated reflection in the floor to ceiling mirror of the dance studio and leans over his right leg until his nose touches his knee cap. His lat muscles pull taut, but the burning recedes with the stretch. Tom holds it for sixty counts before sitting upright. He leans to the left side, waits for the stiff muscles in his back to loosen, then tucks his legs beneath him and rolls onto the balls of his feet in one fluid motion. 

“So, whatcha doing after practice?” Sasha saunters into the small studio, her red leotard leaving little to the imagination. Just because they’re both off for the month doesn’t mean they can slack off. The body is one giant muscle with the memory of a goldfish; leave it unattended for too long and it forgets everything. 

“Don’t know yet. I’m supposed to text Chris when we’re done.” Tom laces his fingers overhead and reaches for the ceiling until his spine pops. 

“You two’ve been hanging out a lot.” Sasha throws her bag into the corner of the room and flows into a series of graceful stretches. “Did you get him naked yet?”

“Not all the way.”

“Seriously?” She turns and cocks an eyebrow at him. “You’ve got it bad for this guy.”

“He’s just—he’s not like that.” Tom turns back to his stretches and ignores Sasha’s teasing smirk. 

They don’t talk about the night in the dressing room. Not that Tom’s ashamed of what happened, and Chris didn’t seem perturbed by it. However, since then Tom hasn’t felt that raw hunger beneath his skin, buzzing like an insect. Fulfillment might be too strong a word, but it feels… _ right _ .  

Chris has taken Tom out on numerous dates since Tom’s schedule cleared out. They spent even more time with their lips locked, their hands roaming unabashed. If Tom thought things were good after New Year’s Eve, he was wrong. Every moment spent in Chris’ presence makes Tom feel loved and cherished, like he’s the most precious thing in Chris’ world. Time speeds past them in a blur, and life becomes refreshing and without burden.  

But no matter how heated things got, Chris always pulled away, and they end the evening on a tooth-achingly sweet note. It’s infuriating, yet Tom’s not agitated by it. 

Sasha, forever more invested in Tom’s love life than her own, likes to remind him that this is so unlike him she hardly recognizes him anymore. She’s not wrong, but it’s Tom’s god-given right to act annoyed every time she brings it up. 

They finish their elaborate stretches in comfortable silence. Sasha catches his eyes in the mirror once or twice, and each time, Tom scowls at her before turning away. There’s no heat behind his glares, and if Sasha’s smirks indicate anything, it’s that she’s more amused than upset. 

The first dance is a duet they’ve been working on. It’s not ready. They’re still working out the kinks and the complicated lifts, and Tom wants to be one hundred percent sure he can perform all the steps in his sleep before risking Sasha’s life on stage. He’s stronger than his slim frame suggests, and Sasha is petite, but lifting a grown woman repeatedly is still exhausting. Before long, Tom’s chest heaves with laboured breaths. He’s drenched in sweat, and he suggests a change of pace. 

Sasha twirls off—earbuds in her ears—to perfect one of her many strip tease routines, taking her iPod with her, and the studio quiets in a tidal wave of silence. Tom makes the short walk to his duffle by the far wall and squats next to it, reaching for his phone. 

The first jolt of pain is like an icepick between his eyes, digging into his skull until it pierces through to the soft stuff underneath. The second sharp jab follows close behind, and the pain spreads to his temples, around the back, and down his neck. Red, pulsing, nauseating, and Tom tips onto his knees. He grasps at the wall with one hand, and his other clutches a fistful of hair. 

He’s screaming. Or maybe it’s all in his head. Tom can’t think, can’t hear, can’t breathe. Something flashes before his eyes, then darkness, then blinding white with a tinge of blue around the edges. The blue intensifies, prismatic yet organic, then it shrinks until it’s too bright to stare at as it sits atop the curve of a golden sceptre. 

It calls for him, draws him in like a living thing, and Tom can’t look away even as it burns. He shuts his eyes, but the images continue their assault. A compound bow. The tip of an arrow. Blinking. An explosion. And when the shower of sparks fizzes out, a grotesque face like the skull of a wild animal covered in dead, blue flesh floats so close Tom can almost taste its putrid breath.

_ “—Tom! Tom what the—are you okay?”  _

A voice. Far away but familiar. Panic. Chaos. Screaming. So much screaming.  

“Tom!” Gentle hands touch his arms, and Tom gasps as the vision fades to the blinding lights of the dance studio. Sasha’s staring at him, eyes wide, brows pinched, and her cheeks lack their usual rosy lustre. “Jesus Christ, you scared me. You all right?” 

He’s laying on his side, his arms tucked into his chest, and he’s cold despite his earlier physical exertion. What the hell was that? “What—what happened?”

“I dunno, you toppled over like you fainted or something.” Sasha slips one slender hand under his head and helps him into a sitting position. “Are you on something?”

“What? God, no, Sash. You know I don’t come to rehearsals high.” Tom rubs his arms and tries to bring warmth back to his chilled skin. 

“Then what was that?” 

“I—” Tom’s not sure, and it terrifies him. But that doesn’t mean Sasha needs to worry too. “I had a bit too much to drink last night. Must be a little hungover still.”

“And you lifted me over your head while hungover?” Concern melts into annoyance as Sasha glares at him. “What if you dropped me?”

“I didn’t, did I?” 

“Still,” Sasha says, sighing, and she deflates like a balloon. “You’re not still out doing stupid shit, are you?”

By stupid shit, she means picking up guys and letting them fuck him however they like. “No, I’m with Chris now.” 

“Good.” 

“Let’s get back to rehearsing.” Tom pushes onto his feet and swallows the wave of nausea. “We’ve only got the place for another hour.”

“Only if you think you’re up for it. I can close up if you want to bounce early.”

“And let you pull ahead of me?”

“I’m the better dancer and everyone knows it.”

Tom rolls his eyes at her and grabs his phone and earbuds from his bag. “So modest.” 

She punches him in the shoulder, then gives him a firm squeeze before walking off to restart her routine. Tom takes a deep breath and wills the tremor in his hands to stop. He picks the music, jams his earbuds in, and loses himself in the ebb and flow of the song as he extends his arms and points his toes. He joys in the freedom of movement and just  _ dancing _ like he hasn’t done in a while. 

One song melts into the next, and Tom’s not rehearsing so much as he is drowning out the strange images in his head with pounding drums and screeching guitar solos. He flies through the air and lands with the grace and agility of a hunting panther. His heart pounds, and with each thudding beat, warm blood chases away the cold in his veins. 

Time passes in a blur of twirls and jumps and loud music, but when the alarm on his phone goes off and Tom comes to his senses—chest heaving and his t-shirt soaked in sweat—Sasha is gone. He pulls out the earbuds, and they sit dangling around his neck as he checks his phone. 

Two messages. He opens Sasha’s first. 

_ You seemed like you were enjoying yourself. Don’t forget to lock up and drop off the key at the front desk. _

Tom wipes the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand and replies with a thumbs up emoji before backing out and tapping the message from Chris. 

_ Wanna join me for a quick workout then dinner?  _

_ Sounds good. Just finished rehearsing, I can shower there after. _

_ Oh, you already worked out. We can skip and go straight to dinner. _

_ And miss the chance to ogle at your sexy muscles? Not a chance. Be there in 15. _

Tom grabs his jacket off the duffel and shoves his phone into a side pocket. He doesn’t notice the wide smile on his face until he’s flicking off the lights, and his reflection grins back at him. 

There are crinkles in the corners of his eyes. 

===

Watching Chris work out is a religious experience. Every. Single. Time. 

Tom grips the barbell—a ten pound plate slotted on each side—on his shoulders and takes a deep breath, locks his core, then dips into a deep squat. He huffs on the way up, then goes down again, putting on a pretence of trying when his focus is on the man doing pull-ups a few feet away from him. 

Chris is wearing one of those muscle shirts—the ones with the low arm holes—that Tom always thought douchey, but on Chris it’s a fucking gift. Every shift of solid muscle beneath smooth skin is on display, and Tom isn’t subtle about his admiration as he flies through his squats without effort. 

Those muscles aren’t just for show either. Tom licks along his bottom lip and sucks a sharp breath, remembering that solid form beneath his fingertips. Chris gasping into his mouth, his body a solid weight as he held Tom down with brute strength. But there’s a tenderness even in that; a softness that rounds out the edges of Chris’ raw power. 

Tom counts every rep as Chris pulls his bulk through the air, chin tapping the bar each time. Chris is on his third round of twenty, and he’s not even winded. Perhaps Tom should work on his upper body a little more.

A flare of pain paralyses his lungs. A ringing in his ears, loud and abrupt. Tom tries to gasp, to draw air, and shuts his eyes as a wave of panic threatens to drown him. He freezes, and it’s another few thudding heartbeats and ragged breaths before the panic recedes enough for Tom to crack open an eye. 

Chris stands before him. His long hair is hidden beneath an iron helmet. His chest armour gleams as his blood-red cape flutters in a stiff breeze, and he’s holding a big ass hammer. 

_ What the fuck? _

Tom opens his mouth, ready to call out Chris’ name, but he snarls instead, and sprints toward Chris, a dagger in each hand.

_ Okay, what the  _ actual  _ fuck?  _

Dirt and gravel and long wisps of black hair whips around him. Chris dashes toward him, hammer raised and blue lightning flashing in his eyes. When the hammer strikes Tom’s raised daggers, time slows.

They dart around each other in an intricate dance of fists and steel. Tom gets dragged along for the ride as his body twirls and dodges, and his sharp daggers look for chances to pierce Chris’ defense. 

Tom’s not sure what to make of any of this, and the pounding behind his eyes intensifies  

Armour-clad Chris strikes Tom with his hammer, and a shock of blue light blinds him. He blinks and tries to hold onto the image, but he’s falling through the galaxies, through clouds of psychedelic gases, through the births and deaths of stars—

Tom gasps, his eyes flying open, and Chris—his Chris—looks down at him, brows pinched and lips pressed together until they’re thin white lines. His face is hidden by shadow, the edge of his hair a bright halo as the overhead light spills around him. 

Chris is wearing his muscle shirt. The battlefield is gone, but the taste of despair lingers. Tom pushes onto his elbow and groans as a splitting headache flares behind his eyes. The pain pulses like a life-force, fierce and demanding, and it spreads until Tom gags with nausea. Chris sits next to him and helps him upright until the coughing and heaving stops. Until Tom’s bones have turned to putty. He sags into the solid chest behind him and takes refuge in the protective arms cradling him. 

Tom shuts his eyes and forces his lungs to expand, dragging in deep and measured breaths until the pain recedes and his stomach settles. When he opens his eyes again, the room is not so saturated, the taste of ashes and death evaporates from his tongue, and he finally gets a closer look at his surroundings. 

They’re in Chris’ office, sitting on the leather couch across from his desk. Huh. “What…what happened?”

Chris rubs a large hand down Tom’s arm and squeezes his elbow. “You passed out.” He kisses Tom’s sweaty temple. 

Tom shies away from Chris’ lips as an image of the  _ other _ Chris flashes in his mind, unbidden. The one with murder in his crystal blue eyes. “What do you mean?”

“You know, you were awake one minute, then collapsed under your barbell the next,” Chris says. “Maybe next time, squat what you can.” 

Tom turns to glare at Chris, and the mischievous twinkle in Chris’ eyes irks him. “Fuck you.” Whatever is going on, it can’t be good. There’s got to be something wrong with his head. Tumour? Clot? Whatever it is, the last thing Tom needs is someone teasing him about it. Even if that someone is Chris.

“Whoa, I’m just joking,” Chris says as he puts up both hands, palms facing Tom, then squints at him before continuing, “You okay? You need to relax.”

“Don’t fucking tell me what to do,” Tom hisses and something inside him snaps. “I’m not one of your fucking charity cases, so just back off, okay?”

Chris tenses, every visible muscle locking until he’s a granite statue. His eyes dim, and the light in them fades until hard little blue pebbles stare back at Tom. “Do not insult my clients.” 

“What are you going to do about it?” That’s not what Tom meant to say. Shit. Fuck. He always  _ does _ this. But it’s too damn late now. 

“That’s enough!” Chris shouts, and a large fist slams the wooden coffee table with a thunderous crack. “Stop this nonsense. What is the matter with you?”

“Why d’you think there’s something the matter with me?” Tom flinches away from Chris’ bulk. His mouth dries as he shrinks back into the far corner of the couch, his eyes trained on Chris. He knows Chris won’t hurt him, but his body reacts to the threat despite that knowledge. 

“You’re being ridiculous and needlessly cruel. I made a passing remark in jest, and for that I have apologized,” Chris grits. “I meant no harm.”

“Jest? Harm? What the fuck, man?” 

“I have had enough of your caustic outbursts,” Chris says, his voice deep and booming and edged with contained anger. He glares at Tom and clenches his fists, hiding the tremor in his hands. 

“I—”

“Silence,” Chris commands, and for the first time in Tom’s life, he’s compelled to listen. “Whatever madness this is, I will have no part of it.” Chris’ eyes flash with a crackle of electricity. 

That…that can’t be right. Can it?

A suffocating stillness stretches between them like a shifting chasm, pulling apart further and further until Tom can’t breathe. He did this. He fucked it up just like he always does. Chris is angry, but beneath that anger Tom can see the hurt and confusion etched in the lines at the corners of his eyes and in the press of his lips. He wants to apologize, to take it all back and come clean, but that door of opportunity shuts when Chris storms out of the office. 


	9. Chapter 9

The Starbucks doesn’t open until five a.m. Not that it matters. Tom hasn’t gone home since he left Hemsworth Athletics last night.

Chris hasn’t answered his calls or texts, and Tom, being the amazing boyfriend that he is, doesn’t know where Chris lives. He shoves his hands into his jacket pockets and shivers. It’s another ten minutes until the coffee shop opens. He thought about pounding on the glass door, but he looks homeless. He doesn’t need the police called on him, too.

Tom leans against the concrete wall and stares up into the starless sky. They have always gone back to Tom’s place after a date. Hung out in a space where Tom’s most comfortable, where he’s the boss. Now that he’s had some time to think about it, they always do what Tom wants. Go to the restaurants Tom wants to try, the bars Tom likes, the places Tom wants to see. Sure, Chris is a Vancouver local, but that doesn’t mean he wouldn’t like to go to his  favourite watering hole or restaurant. Or, that he wouldn’t enjoy hanging out at his place for a change.

This whole relationship has been about Tom. Chris puts up with so much, and Tom, ever the emotional vampire, just kept sucking and sucking and sucking until Chris ran dry. Chris, who is so full of goodness and compassion for others. Chris, who is clearly done with him. But instead of feeling vindictive, Tom’s just…empty.

He tried going to a club after the fight, but the music was dull and the people worse. Or perhaps he’s the one that’s changed. What he’d do for a blunt, or a cigarette, or something harder to make him forget, but he’s fresh out of weed and he hasn’t needed drugs since he met Chris. Not that it matters. Not anymore.

The door cracks open with a sticky swish. “Sir, we’re open now if you’d like to come in,” the barista says with a tired smile before pushing past him with a large chalkboard sign _._

The coffee shop is warm. Too warm. His chilled skin tingles. Pins and needles and spider legs crawling up his spine. He didn’t think he was that cold, but, obviously, just like with everything else, he was wrong. Being the first one in line has its perks; his order is ready without delay. Tom checks his phone for the time and wraps his hands around the warm cup as he pushes his way out of the Starbucks and down the street.

He doesn’t know where Chris lives, but he knows when Chris starts working on Saturdays. It’s an ungodly five thirty, but it’s all Tom’s got. He rounds the corner—the gym’s yellow sign glows in the darkness of pre-dawn—and picks up speed, wanting to make sure he’s at the door before Chris gets here.

“Yo, buddy,” a loud and obnoxious voice shouts from behind him. “Hey, I’m talking to you!”

Tom stops and turns. “You talking to me?”

“Yeah.” A group of guys saunter toward him. They’re moving too smoothly to be drunk, but rowdy enough Tom guesses they just left some party. The man in the lead—tall and wide across the shoulders—grins at him with a nasty glint in his eyes. He looks familiar. Tom’s sure he’s seen the guy at multiple shows. Fucking great. “I got a hundred bucks with your name onnit if you suck me ’n my friends’ dick.”

“It’s dicks, unless you collectively have one penis, and no thanks.” Tom sniffs and squares his shoulders. He should walk away, but the way the leader is looking at him—animalistic and predatory—stops him from turning his back on them.  

“Aw, c’mon,” the guy sneers and sweeps his arms wide. “Another hundred and a warm bed for the night if you let us fuck your pretty little ass. Guys like you are into that sorta thing, right?”

“Do I look like a hooker to you? Buzz off.” Tom grips the coffee cup, his voice even.

“Bitch got a mouth on him,” Gorilla-Shoulders says to his buddies, then turns back to Tom and spits. “Mouth like that is made for sucking cock, not talking back to real men.” His friends chuckle and high five each other behind him, and Tom swallows.

They catch up to him, their steps steady. Tom shuffles back and the cool, rough surface of a concrete wall greets him. He’s had his share of fights, drunken and otherwise, but even he’s no match against five guys whose eyes are gleaming with malice. They don’t want to have sex with him; they want to hurt him. Pound him into the ground and violate him for the sake of brutality, for the sake of control. Assholes.

Gorilla-Shoulders takes a step toward him, and his friends—Pinocchio, Fat-Bastard, ‘Roid-Junkie, and Tax-Accountant—form a semi-circle, trapping them in the inky shadow between two street lamps. One on one then, at least until they see the need to rush in all at once.

Tom places the coffee cup on the ground next to his feet and takes a step forward. A beating is the last thing he wants, but perhaps this is the universe punishing him for every bad thing he’s done. Maybe he should just lay down and take it, but even as the thought occurs to him, Tom chuckles and shakes his head. He’s just not the lay down and take it kind of guy when it comes to a fight.

“What’s so fucking funny, huh, pretty boy?” Gorilla-Shoulders takes another step closer, his hands held out in front of his face. A boxer’s stance. Well, isn’t that just Tom’s luck.

The jab comes at him with lightning speed, and only his dancer’s nimbleness saves him from getting his teeth knocked in. Tom side-steps, then darts in close. Elbow meets ribs. Gorilla-Shoulders grunts, but he doesn’t go down. Instead, a meaty forearm slaps against Tom’s temple. Stinging pain, and Tom crumples. The world spins. Fists rain down on him. A ringing in his ear. And he’s so fucking cold.

Feet shuffle closer. All five pairs of them. Tom thrashes. Something warm and sticky splashes on his hand. A scream—shock and pain—and the bodies around him stumble back.  

“Hey!” A voice booms from across the street. “What the hell is going on here?”

Tom looks up, still dazed but determined to take on anyone who dares to come near him. Chris is sprinting toward them, phone in hand, and he looks like a pissed off lion with all that hair and a snarl on his face.

“I’m calling the police!” Chris shouts and holds the phone to his ear.

“Shit, fuck, lets get outta here!” A panicked voice. More shuffling. “Someone grab Chad—”

Chaos gives way to complete, utter silence. Tom struggles to his feet, shakes his head and tries to muffle the ringing in his ears. Chris is beside him, but he doesn’t come close, his wide eyes trained on Tom’s hand. “Are you hurt?”

“Huh?” Tom follows Chris’ gaze and frowns. His hand is speckled with blood, and he’s holding a long, wicked looking knife. What? “I—it’s not mine. I must have grabbed it off one of those assholes.”

“Did they—”

“No. No, this isn’t my blood. I don’t think.” Tom drops the knife and forgets about it before the clatter of metal on concrete fades. He turns and picks up the Starbucks cup and hands it to Chris. “Peppermint mocha. Hope it’s still warm.”

Chris stares at him, mouth slack, but he takes the cup and takes a sip. “I thought they pulled it after Christmas.”

“I got my ways.” Tom shrugs and tries to quell the tremor in his hands. “And, I’m sorry.” Those two little words stumble from his lips, clumsy like a newborn giraffe, and yet, it’s liberating to finally utter them to someone he cares about. Even if it’s too little, too late.

Chris blinks, and his lips press together in that way Tom’s learned to hate. Chris is still mad at him. Of course he is. Any sane person would be. Though, sometimes Tom questions Chris’ sanity. After all, he was willing to put up with Tom’s bullshit for so long.

“Thanks for the coffee. Let’s get out of the cold.” Chris turns and walks toward the gym.

Tom follows on silent feet, and his hands shake so hard he jams them into his coat pocket to hide them from the world.

The gym—without its usual driving music and clinking metal—is eerily quiet. Tom steps through the door and scuffs the toe of his shoe against the concrete floor. Chris flicks a row of switches on the far wall, bathing them in a flood of fluorescent lights, and walks into his office without a word. Tom waits a beat, and another, then follows. When he steps through the door, Chris is seated at his desk, watching the entrance with fierce, blue eyes.

“I—I’m not sure why I’m here,” Tom says, standing by the door frame, and he can’t stop shaking. Fuck.

“What do you mean?” Chris swims in and out of focus.

Tom digs the heels of his hands into his eyes and says, “I just—I wanted to apologize for…” Apologize for what? Oh right. “For being an asshole.” Tom frowns and grinds his teeth to keep them from chattering. It’s really fucking cold in here.  

“You did that.”

“Right—”

“What’re you running from?” Chris asks, eyes unblinking and focused one hundred percent on Tom. “What’s got you so scared you lash out at everyone who gets close?”

“I—” It hurts to think. Hurts to want to say the words. “I—” The walls rush toward him, and an invisible claw squeezes his chest until he’s suffocating. Large hands rest on his back and arm. Tom looks up and Chris’ frown smothers him. So much upset. So much…concern. And love. And everything else Tom doesn’t deserve.

He grabs the front of Chris’ t-shirt, hangs on because his knees are buckling, because he’s falling. Because his life depends on it. Chris scoops Tom into his arms and carries him to the couch. It’s so embarrassing, so emasculating to be princess-carried and laid on the couch like he’s some fragile glass statue. But Tom basks in the warmth of Chris’ broad chest, indulges in the strength of Chris’ arms, and allows himself to be weak for this small pocket in time.

“You’re still in your gym clothes,” Chris says as he smooths back a strand of hair from Tom’s forehead. “Did you not go home last night?”

“…No.” Tom leans into the brush of fingers and ignores the deepening furrow of Chris’ brows.

“Get some sleep. We’ll talk when you’ve rested.” Chris makes to get up but Tom grabs his hand, a surge of panic in his chest pumping fresh adrenalin through his veins.

“I want to tell you, I do, please—” Tom blurts, nails digging into Chris’ flesh. “I just—I need—”

“I’ll be here when you wake up.” Chris covers Tom’s frigid hand with his own and warmth seeps through Tom’s skin.

“Promise you’ll hear me out?”

“Promise.”

Tom sags against the soft couch cushions. Then all is darkness.

===

A single shaft of sunlight lands across Tom’s eyes, chasing away the dark with a tender warmth. He groans and turns over, but the sun warms his neck like a kiss, urging him into wakefulness.

Tom doesn’t want to wake up. Doesn’t want the rush of emotions that accompanies consciousness, but the sun is persuasive. He sits up, groggy and nauseated, and his mouth tastes like a cat took a piss there. He digs the heels of his hands into his eyes. Hopes to rub away the shame burning alongside sleep.

A metallic click, and the whisper of heavy wood gliding along concrete. Tom snaps his gaze to the door, his hands frozen mid eye-rub.

“Hey,” Chris says as he closes the door behind him with a soft click. “Did I wake you?”

Tom clears his throat and swallows—his tongue thick, mouth way too dry—and says, “No. I just woke up.”

Chris smiles. It’s not one of his beaming smiles, but it’s the warmest he’s looked since last night. “Good. I’m just finishing up here. Gonna get changed, then I’d like for us to have that chat.”

“S-sure.”

“Hey—” Chris frowns and closes the distance between them in long strides. He crouches in front of the couch and lays a hand on Tom’s knee. “We’re just going to talk, okay?”

Tom worries his bottom lip between his teeth and nods, not trusting his voice. Chris gets up and grabs his duffle from under the desk. He turns and gives Tom another smile, this one touches his sharp blue eyes with tendrils of warmth, before heading out the door.

The door clicks shut behind Chris. Tom twists left and right, stretching out his back, then gets up and folds the soft blanket. He doesn’t remember falling asleep with one. Chris must have tucked him in. Chris is still looking out for him even though he’s angry at him. How did Tom ever think he deserves someone like Chris?

“Okay, I’m ready to go when you are.” Chris’ voice cuts through his somber thoughts.

Tom hides his shaking hands beneath the folds of the thick blanket. “Where to?”

“How about my place?”

“Why?” Tom blinks, too shocked to hide his surprise.

“One. I have leftover Chinese food,” Chris says. “Two, once you’ve said your piece, you’re free to leave or stay and not feel trapped.”

Chris is giving him a way out. Never in his life has Tom felt more like an asshole than this moment, and he’s had lots of opportunities. He nods and pulls on his jacket, following Chris out of the office and the gym.

They walk along the busy streets of Downtown in silence, and the neat three inches between them has never felt more distant. Tom wants to reach out and curl his hand in Chris’, wants to lean into that solid form and let it hold him up for a little while. He could have all that, but he went and ruined it with his own bitterness.

Maybe it really should have been him.

The walk to Chris’ is shorter than Tom expected. As it turns out, Chris’ one bedroom apartment isn’t all that far from Tom’s. The front door opens into the living room, and everything in the small space screams Chris. A large flat screen TV hangs on the wall opposite from the door, a collection of DVDs are stacked neatly in a shelf underneath, and a white leather couch sits stoic in the middle of the room. It’s large, the cushions as soft as they look as Tom sinks into them.

Chris tells him to sit tight and disappears down the hall, leaving Tom alone to look around. He takes in every detail with razor sharp focus, wanting to etch every little bit of Chris into his mind before he gets kicked out of Chris’ life for good. Tom closes his eyes and inhales. Fresh pine and the smell of a thunderstorm wraps around him like a tangible thing. They seep through his clothes and cling to his skin.  

“Hey, you falling asleep on me?”

Tom startles and swivels right into a steaming mug. The sweet scent of hot cream and cocoa drapes over him like a blanket fresh from the dyer. He takes the offered mug, joys in the warmth as it hitchhikes along his bloodstream, and takes a tentative sip. Rich, bittersweet chocolate burst on his tongue, thick and silky and seductive as hell. This is not hot chocolate from a tin.

“You did not tell me you were a hot chocolate connoisseur,” Tom says and takes another sip.

“There’s still a lot you don’t know about me.” Chris takes a seat on the opposite end of the couch, his own mug balanced on his knee. “But that’s another story for another day. So...”

“So...” Tom rolls the mug between his palms and takes a shaky breath. Where to even start? “My brother died because of me.” Might as well start with the truth.

Blue eyes widen with shock, and it takes Chris a moment to mask his…surprise? Disgust? Tom can’t tell.

“My brother, Casey, had acute myelogenous leukaemia when he was sixteen.” When Chris tilts his head, brows furrowing, Tom adds, “Blood cancer. Nasty business. Anyway, the fastest cure was a bone marrow transplant from a sibling for a perfect match.”

“Christ, Tom—”

“They thought I was asleep, Mom and Dad, when the doctor came to talk to them about treatment. They told him I was adopted, but they didn’t want me to find out, so they asked—begged—the doctor to tell me I wasn’t a match,” Tom says and takes another sip, hoping to find some courage in the heat of the hot drink. “After the doctor left, Mom broke down. ‘If we’d only kept trying after finding Tom, Casey might have had a chance,’ she said. Dad didn’t disagree.”

Chris shifts closer, his knee bumping Tom’s in silent support.

“She didn’t have to say it, but I killed Casey. If they _hadn’t_ _found_ me, they’d have had another baby, whose bone marrow would have saved him.”

“You don’t know that—”

“It was my fault!” Tom’s voice is shrill. “You asked me what I deserve? I don’t deserve a damn thing. Not you, not Sasha, not this life. I should have died so that Casey might have had a chance to live.”

The bitter ring of his voice fades into the space between them, and Tom stares into his mug, too afraid to look up and see Chris’ face twisted in disgust. A whole life of bad choices and living every day like it’s his last has led him to this. He’s made his bed, now he gets to lay in the crumple sheets, alone, because ultimately, that’s what he deserves.

When he confronted Mom and Dad about his parentage, they said they still loved him, that he was their son, and they didn’t blame him for Casey’s death. But Tom could see the _what if_ in their eyes every time they thought he wasn’t looking. Can still feel those dagger-sharp stares stab into his back if he closes his eyes. They still call him, leave him voicemails on his birthday and major holidays, but Tom doesn’t need their affection out of duty.

Chris stares at him, a million things reflected in those intense blue eyes. Silence is as good an invitation to get the hell out as any. Tom takes one more sip of his hot chocolate, swirls the creaminess in his mouth, and swallows before pushing himself out of the couch’s embrace. “Anyway, that’s that. I guess I’ll see myself out—”

A large hand shoots out, grasps Tom’s wrist with bone-crushing strength, and yanks him back. Tom falls into Chris’ lap with a grunt, and he’s still processing just what the fuck is going on when Chris’ lips find his in a tender kiss. It’s a soft thing, gentle and nourishing, like the sun after a storm. Like a beacon of light Tom didn’t know he needed.

“Where’re you going?” Chris mumbles against the corner of his mouth and follows his question with a flick of tongue.

“I—”

Chris swallows Tom’s words, laps into Tom’s mouth and kisses him until the world shifts on its axis. “You didn’t kill him,” he says with a growl and pulls back to stare into Tom’s eyes with such sincerity Tom almost believes him. Almost.

“You can’t just say that and make it true.”

“No one blames you, Tom,” Chris insists. “You need to forgive yourself and stop this ridiculous self-imposed exile by pushing people away.”

“What do you know about self-exile?” Tom twists in Chris’ lap, but two large arms clamp around him and lock him in place.

“Enough. I know enough.” Chris stares past Tom, and his eyes cloud over with such sadness Tom wants to kiss it away. “Everyone’s got demons, you can’t let yours control you.”

“But—”

“If you can’t love yourself, then let me love you,” Chris cuts in. Tom’s breath freezes on the inhale and he stares at Chris, unblinking and unsure if he heard right. “You going to say something or just stare at me like I have three heads?”

Tom’s not sure he can put this overwhelming feeling into words. His throat tightens, his eyes burn with tears threatening to spill. Tears he’s not allowed himself to shed since he was eleven years old. Since the day Casey drew his last breath. Casey’s death is on him. Tom won’t let anyone ease that from him, but perhaps, with Chris, he can learn to move beyond the guilt and self-hatred.

If Chris thinks he deserves help, then maybe there is something buried deep within Tom that’s still worth saving.

“I can’t—I don’t—I—yes,” Tom gasps into Chris’ mouth as he closes the gap between them. “Yes. Please.”

The first tear drop leaves a scorching trail as it rolls down Tom’s cheek, paving way for many more to follow as he kisses Chris like he needs the air in Chris’ lungs. One large hand finds the back of Tom’s neck, thick fingers digging into his skin, then Chris is kissing him back with renewed fervour, his tongue pressing into Tom’s mouth to lap and lick. Their tongues tangle in a half-hearted wrestle until Chris sucks Tom’s past his lips, and Tom is drunk on the flavour of Chris’ mouth.

It tastes like a singular truth. Chris loves him. Wants to love him. And that’s enough for Tom.

Chris pulls back first, like always, and smiles down at Tom. His eyes are soft, and they crinkle in the corners. Tom reaches up with both hands and cups Chris’ cheeks, brushing back wisps of hair as he studies Chris’ every feature. He doesn’t deserve this, but Chris is giving it to him anyway.

Tom’s face splits in a wide smile, and he lets go of Chris’ cheeks to snuggle into his chest, his ear pressed against Chris’ solid chest as he listens to the thud thud thud of Chris’ beating heart. It’s soothing, and Chris’ arms encircle his shoulders, pulling him impossibly close.

For the second time that day, slumber tugs Tom under.

===

Tom wakes up gasping. It's dark. Night time. He can’t breathe. Can’t move.

Large arms grab him from behind, and Tom freezes as the warmth of another person presses up against him. Panic, disgust, disappointment. Whose bed is he in now? He doesn’t remember leaving Chris’ apartment—

A grumble, and a huff of air tickles the shell of Tom’s ear. A sob, sad and small, and the back of his neck is chilled with wetness. Tom twists and peers over his shoulder, and a small sigh of relief punches out of him.

Chris. This is Chris’ bed, and Chris is hugging him from behind. The relief is short-lived when Chris shudders, his arms tightening impossibly hard, and another sob escapes him. Tom pushes with all his might and, inch by inch, turns in Chris’ crushing embrace.

He strokes Chris’ cheek, runs his fingernails through the thick, luxurious beard, and whispers, “Hey, wake up, you’re having a bad dream.” Chris frowns, more tears rolling down the bridge of his nose, and Tom worries as he slaps Chris’ face gently. “Chris, hey, wake up. It’s me. It’s Tom—”

Chris’ eyes snap open, nostrils flaring. There’s a wildness about him, and for a second, it’s as if Chris doesn't recognize Tom as he rolls over, pinning Tom beneath his bulk.

“As much as I enjoy having you on top of me,” Tom gasps, “I can’t breathe.”

Chris blinks, and the tint of crazy blue fades as he slowly loosens his grip. He doesn’t let go as he rolls off, arms encircling Tom in a protective cocoon of warmth beneath the sheets. “Sorry,” he mumbles into Tom’s hair, warm breath tickling his scalp.

“Bad dream?” Tom snuggles into the embrace. This is Chris’ bed and Chris’ arms around him. Tom breathes a little easier and indulges in the heat of Chris’ body.       

A beat of silence marches past them. “Not sure if bad is the right word. I saw you, and you were so sad. But I couldn’t get to you no matter how hard I tried.”

“You had me pretty good,” Tom says and hides the lump in this throat with a soft chuckle.

“I just wanted to hold you.”

“You are now.”

“I know.”

Comforting silence wraps around them, a bubble of companionship Tom’s not used to while horizontal and in the arms of another man. It’s…nice. Chris draws little circles along Tom’s chest, moving idly in a tickle of skin, and shifts behind Tom. “I’m sorry.”

“Hm?” Tom closes his eyes and burrows further into Chris’ embrace.

“You were dead to the world,” Chris says into Tom’s hair. “I didn’t want to wake you, so I took some liberties…”

“You took off my shirt and tucked me into bed with you,” Tom retorts. “Those are some very conservative liberties.”

Chris chuckles, the low rumbling turning into a full-bodied laugh until they’re both shaking with the effort. “You’re incorrigible.”

“I’ve been called worse.”

Chris turns him in his arms, and Tom looks up through his lashes at Chris’ sincere, open face. “Never again will anyone be permitted to do so.” Tom opens his mouth, but the scathing, self-deprecating response dies in his throat when Chris brushes a feather-light kiss along his lips. Chris pulls back and smothers Tom in an ocean of blue and says, “I’m sorry about your brother. About everything that’s happened to you.”

“I…I am too”—Tom deflates—“but in a way, it brought me here.”

“That it did.”

“And, I…” Tom licks his lips and snuggles closer, avoiding Chris’ eyes because all that intensity focused on him is overwhelming. “I kind of like it here, and I’d like to stay a while.”

“You have a place here. With me.” Chris’ large hands roam his back, calloused skin sending tiny jolts of electricity as daft fingers trail along the curve of the small of his back. Tom moans, shuffles closer and arches into Chris. It’s so warm, and Chris feels so good as he traps Tom against his chest. “Just, don’t push me away anymore, okay? I want to think I’ll keep coming back, but—”

“I know,” Tom cuts in, his gut twisting. He doesn’t want to hear Chris doubt himself, doesn’t want to hear those words that would cut him deeper than any knife. “I get it.”

“Just—” Chris’ hands thread between their bodies to cup Tom’s cheeks. “I meant what I said.” Chris’ voice is rough around the edges.

“Which part?”

“That I want to love you.” _Oh._ “You deserve to be loved.” Chris kisses his temple, lips trailing along his cheeks, and Tom doesn’t notice the tears spilling down his cheeks until Chris is kissing his lips. Bitterness and salt, but it’s not unpleasant with Chris’ tongue sweeping into his mouth.  

Tom never tires of kissing Chris, of the sweetness of Chris’ tongue and the heat of his mouth. Of the moans that rumble like thunder and zap through Tom like lightning. Hands travel down Tom’s arms, thick fingers grip his hips, and then Chris is on top of him once more, his thighs splayed around Tom’s hips.

Desire boils beneath Tom’s skin, and he needs to feel every inch of Chris, needs to map out Chris’ body and memorize every dip of muscle. His hands explore the vast expanse of Chris’ back, nails dragging along soft skin until Chris hisses into his mouth. “Christ, Tom—”

“I need—please. Please,” Tom pleads into Chris’ mouth, words distorted against Chris’ tongue. Desperate. Needy. Thirsty for more. His cock fills, and when he shifts, his rapidly growing tent brushes against something hard and scorching through soft cotton.

Chris pulls Tom’s bottom lip between his teeth and bites. Pain laced with pleasure jolts through him, pools at the juncture of his thighs, and Tom forgets how to breathe. Chris throws off the sheets and rears up. Shafts of moonlight spill around him, the monochrome teases out the sharp blue of his lust-blown eyes.

Tom stares up, transfixed by the magnificent man kneeling above him. His body is the stuff of wet dreams, but it’s the confident way he carries himself, and the waves of gentle reassurance rolling from his fingertips that has Tom melting into the mattress. Chris parts Tom’s hips, slips between them like it’s his rightful place, like there’s nowhere else he'd rather be. He drops forward, hands planted on either side of Tom’s torso, and holds his bulk as he leans in with soft lips.

Each dotted kiss along Tom’s chest is a mark on his soul. He craves it, wants to be marked and claimed by Chris until he’s reborn. Until he’s deserving of Chris’ love and devotion. Lips and tongue and teasing teeth nibble down the plane of Tom’s torso, leaving behind a trail of goosebumps as air chills the moist skin.

Tom arches into the kisses, his body flushing between hot and cold as he _wants._ Chris takes his time exploring Tom’s body with his mouth, and Tom can feel the curl of Chris’ lips when he kisses down the faint treasure trail leading to the waistband of Tom’s sweatpants.

“I wish you could see yourself right now,” Chris mumbles against the thin skin above Tom’s left hip. “You’re ravishing. Skin flushed pink, nipples plump, and this here—” He shifts and nudges the top of Tom’s pulsing tent with the tip of his nose and chuckles. “Impressive.”

“You fucking tease.” Tom pushes onto his elbows and glares down at mischievous blue eyes. Chris was filthy on the phone that one time; Tom shouldn’t be surprised that he turns out to be a tease in bed.

“You love it.”

“What if I do?” God, are they really _having a conversation_ right now?

“Good.” Rough fingers dip below the waistband of Tom’s pants and underwear and yank the garments past his thighs. Tom rocks his hips up, aiding as much as he can, and hisses when his cock springs free of its cotton confines to leak freely under Chris’ scrutiny. “By the Gods, you are beautiful.”

Tom doesn’t process the words, only the heat of Chris’ lips and tongue as Chris licks the head of his cock into his mouth. The world shrinks into this singular moment as Tom flops onto his back. Chris doesn’t waste any more time and, without warning or preparation, swallows Tom’s cock in one smooth motion.

Tom shouts, his left leg spasms, and his cock. Oh God. His cock. So warm. So tight. The velvet smooth walls of Chris’ throat squeeze and squeeze. And stars fly past him, suck him into the heart of blinking galaxies.

“F-fuck—!” Tom’s hips snap up despite himself, and his body shudders with the effort to not explode right then. It’s as if Chris _knows_ where all Tom's buttons are, and he’s jabbing them with gleeful fingers.

Chris pulls back just enough to draw breath. Just enough for Tom to collect his scattered wits. Then he plunges back down, and the ridge of Tom’s cock catches on the ring of Chris’ throat muscle. It’s electrifying. It’s mind-numbing pressure that translates into immense pleasure, and Tom clutches at something, anything.

The heat of Chris’ throat grows hotter with each bob of Chris’ head. Tom loses the ability to speak, to shout, to breathe, as Chris works him like a well-loved instrument. Like Chris knows exactly which strings to pluck to shoot liquid fire through Tom’s veins.

Christ, he’s never blown his load so quickly, but if Chris doesn’t let up, if his tongue keeps doing that curling thing at the end of each lick, if his teeth scrape along the underside once more time—

“Oh fuck—fuck fuck fuck,” Tom chants, voice shredded, fingers scrabbling, muscle twitching, and the light of a thousand stars explodes behind his eyes. It’s sweltering, blinding, suffocating, and absolutely marvellous.

His orgasm punches out of him in a huff of laboured breath, and Tom’s body locks in limbo as he empties his pleasure into Chris’ waiting throat until he’s a twitching, mewling, sweating mess. Until his mind is so empty he finds himself the only inhabitant for the first time since the day Casey passed away.

Chris pulls Tom’s pants off completely, and when he crawls back between Tom’s splayed thighs, he’s also gloriously naked. Tom watches Chris with lidded eyes, gaze trailing down the hills and valleys of Chris’ perfect abs, and stops at his bobbing erection. He remembers the taste of that wonderful cock, remembers the weight of the shaft and the softness of the velvet head.

Tom wants it. Only this time, he wants it to fill a different void. He tries to reach out, but his arms have turned to lead, and the only thing he has regained command of is his voice. “Need you.”

“Oh?”

“Don’t play coy,” Tom grouses and spreads his legs slightly further. “You know what I want.”

“Say it,” Chris replies without missing a beat, and something in his eyes thrills through Tom like a tangible thing.

“Say what?”

“You know what I want to hear.”

God, when did Chris get so bossy? Tom groans and drapes a hand across his sweaty brows. He’s never been one to get shy in bed, but somehow, with Chris, everything’s different, and it takes a few tries before he utters the words, “Fuck me. Please.”

Chris’ hands are on him before the echo of his voice has faded, and those lips are claiming Tom’s once more in a searing kiss. Tom wraps his arms around Chris’ neck, fingers delving between thick locks of hair for leverage. Chris fumbles around the bedside table and fishes out a bottle of lube and a condom without breaking the kiss.

The pop of the lube bottle is deafening. Chris pushes Tom’s thighs wider, and when a slick finger finally, finally pushes past Tom’s ring of muscle, the world feels right. The lube is cool, but Chris’ finger feels…familiar. They’ve never done this, and yet Chris finds his prostate with razor sharp precision, taps the bundle of nerves exactly how Tom likes.

It’s uncanny how Chris reads him, knows exactly when to push deeper, when to pull back, and when to slip two more fingers into him at the same time. Tom gasps, hips twitching with the sudden intrusion, and he thrills in the burn of it. Fuck, he doesn’t remember the last time someone anticipated him as well as Chris, but he doesn’t have the braincells to spare to ponder on this. Tom wants, and he wants it _now._

He opens his mouth, ready to demand or beg or do both. But he chokes on his words when Chris pulls out his fingers and shoves his cock into Tom without missing a beat. It fucking _hurts_ , like being split in half, like having his insides prodded and stirred. Even with the lube. Even with the three-finger prep.

It’s a delicious pain no-one’s been able to give him. The kind of pain Tom wants to get drunk on.

“Gods—fuck—” Tom gasps as Chris covers his body with his, bulging arms slipping beneath Tom’s shoulders to crush him to Chris’ sweat-slicked chest.

Chris pulls out, the ridge of his cock teases the lip of Tom’s spasming hole, and slams back in. Tom’s body adjusts to Chris’ girth as if it’s done this a hundred times before, and a flash of something familiar lights up the back of Tom’s eyelids.

_A different Chris, clad in armour, holding Tom in his arms, hips thrusting._

Tom can’t distinguish between the mirage and reality. Chris is everywhere, around him, inside him, and Tom, Tom’s just along for the ride, thrown about in the tempest of Chris’ passions.

A ringing in his ears. Another white hot flash burns the back of his eyelids. Tom cries out.

_A woman. Tight leather suit._

A sharp pain in his shoulder. Tom forces his eyes open and sinks his nails into Chris’ back as Chris’ hips snap against his thighs, his cock hitting Tom’s prostate over and over and over.

_Stabbing pain. A flashing streak of metal. Knife in his gut._

Tom panics even as the pressure building low in his belly threatens to explode. He can’t, he mustn’t, he’s so close.

_The woman turns. Disdain. Hatred. Eyes smeared in ashes._

Chris wraps his arms around the small of Tom’s back and lifts him off the bed, impaling Tom so deeply everything explodes in a shower of white light. Tom’s choked cry bounces off the stoic walls as he tries to hang onto the teasing threads of remembrance, but Chris is touching him in all the right places, thrusting into him so deeply and thoroughly Tom can hardly breathe.

_A streak of lightning._

_Death._

Tom comes to the sting of a burst of electricity with Chris’ voice—jagged and raw—ringing in his ears. A stabbing pain behind his eyes chases away his post-orgasmic bliss. Images flash before his eyes, like a flood crashing through a dam, and Tom’s reeling from the assault of memories.

He loses time, loses himself as his body absorbs pieces that belong to someone else. A stranger. A stranger who’s also him. With long black hair and a penchant for green leather.

It takes him a few more gasped breaths before everything settles. Before the room drops in temperature as he finally remembers who he really is. He looks up at the man kneeling inches from him, shoulders and chest heaving as he calms down from the same mental assault, and he can’t help but grin.

Blue eyes sparkling with eerie blue light stare at him. Through him. “Loki.”

Loki grins, tries to ignore the crackle of anger in the voice that spoke his name. “Hello, Brother.”  

  



	10. Chapter 10

Memories are fickle creatures. They flitter around his head, the new and the ancient mingling until everything is a blur. Asgard. Midgard. Tom. Loki. Chris. Thor.

Hela.

===

“You made me forget,” Thor shouts. “Forget about Father’s death, about what you did!”

“I saved our lives.” Loki covers the left side of his abdomen as if clutching the flesh will lessen the phantom pain flaring from a remembered wound. A wound inflicted by one of Hela’s fiendish swords.

“What about the lives of our people? The people we left behind?”

“She is not stupid enough to commit genocide on her own people.”

“And how, pray tell, can you be certain?”

“I’m not,” Loki hisses, patience wearing thin as he refuses to shrink beneath Thor’s accusatory stare. “But you forget, Brother, who it was that dragged your unconscious body from Hela’s clutches. Who it was that shielded your presence from her. Who it was that gave you a second chance at life.”

Silence descends upon them, savage and thrumming with tension. Thor rolls out of bed and pulls on his discarded sweatpants. The skin on his back is littered with scars and more are finding their way back as memories pour in like a never-ending fountain. Loki studies his own hands—the tingling surge of magic stirs beneath his skin—and notes the thin line of pink puckered skin on his left thumb. The physical proof of a spell gone wrong.  

This is fascinating. Even their bodies were altered. Just how powerful was the concealment spell? He had cast it in desperation, every atom in his body screaming as he dragged Thor’s unconscious form from Hela and her endless arsenal of sharp projectiles.

Loki cannot piece together the reason for the spell’s failure now. Was it because of their proximity? Their…love-making? Did the spell wear thin after all this time?

“Loki.” Thor starts, pauses, and turns to wrap Loki in a shroud of blue, a faint smile on his lips. “Thank you. For saving my life.”

Loki shrugs, and his anger diminishes under his brother’s soft expression.

“I do not want to fight. We have lost so much time,” Thor continues. “We need to go back to Asgard. Together, we will defeat Hela.”

“Um, in case you forgot”—Loki winces at his word choice—“she broke your hammer like it was made of glass.”

“I have not forgotten, but thank you for the reminder.” Thor frowns and glares at him.

“She’s stronger than the both of us.” Loki tries to keep the exasperation out of his voice. “And she’s been on Asgard for as long as we have been on Earth. Her powers are—”

“It matters not.”

“Do you truly have a death wish?”

“Every creature dies at some point, even us.” Thor spreads his arms in a sweeping gesture as if that is reason enough to return to Asgard and face the Goddess of Death.

Loki balls his fists and forces himself to inhale in even breaths. “Everything I did to save us, does it mean so little that you’re willing to throw it away? And for what? For honour? Valhalla? For _glory_?” He spits the last word as if it’s poison.

“For our people.”

“ _Your_ people. You forget what I am.” Loki pushes past Thor and yanks open the sliding glass door leading onto the small balcony.

Thor doesn’t follow, and Loki finds solace in the warmth of the rising sun as dawn breaks over the horizon. The view here isn’t as expansive as at his apartment, but the sun cresting the mountain tops is still breathtaking and beautiful.

Loki is aware he is fighting a losing battle. That Thor, being Thor, will always choose Asgard over him. Over Loki. It’s not a surprise, but it’s a weeping wound that refuses to heal, and it eats away at Loki until puss and bitterness fill his insides.

It’s always the people.

When Loki crafted the spell, he did not mean for them to lose their memories and their identities, but a small part of him must have wanted this. Must have wanted them to be normal people with normal lives and normal dreams. For them to have a chance at finding each other and—

Loki closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, shaking away the spectral feeling of Thor’s hands exploring his body, the weight of Thor’s body, and the delicious way he fitted _inside_ Loki like he belonged there.

Tom’s memories are fresh in his mind, flashes of vivid colour amongst the monochrome of his past life. Happiness. Like their childhood days spent chasing beneath the watchful trees of Asgardian forests. Like stolen moments of tenderness illuminated by discreet stars. Like borrowed nights of forbidden passion cloaked in magic so not even Heimdall could see.

The sun warms his skin, and a gentle breeze teases his hair. Midgard—Earth—is a realm in its infancy; it has the potential for such magnificence. Beauty unfiltered, raw and majestic in its entirety. Loki gazes at the snow-capped mountains, and he wishes to stay. It was nice not being Loki for a change. Nice to be desired and needed. He never wanted to be feared and loathed, only acknowledged.

And he wanted Thor. Still wants Thor.

Thor has never been his to have, but Chris was. Thor belongs to the people, but Chris belonged to him, and him alone. Loki has long since come to terms with his selfishness. If he doesn’t look after himself, no one else will.

Except Thor.

A whisper of metal gliding on metal, a soft shuffle, and a blanket cascades over Loki’s shoulders, shrouding in him warmth.

Loki pulls the fluffy material around his shoulders and gives Thor a withering look. “Really? A blanket out of the dryer?” Of course, Thor is looking after him even if he won’t _choose_ him.

Thor says nothing as he pulls out a second folding chair and settles next to Loki, his face turned to the sun. A slow smile pulls at the corners of his lips, and his eyes squint until they’re happy little slits with crinkles in the corners. “Lovely, isn’t it?”

“Aye,” Loki replies and snuggles deeper into his blanket.

“I have no desire to fight Hela,” Thor says, his voice a smooth rumble. “Nor do I wish to leave you, leave this”—he tilts his head back, chin pointing at the sun—“all behind. But it is my duty. Asgard is my home.”

“We can pretend,” Loki says, but the words sound hollow even as he utters them, “that we never regained our memories. Continue our lives as Chris and Tom, successful gym owner and burlesque dancer extraordinaire.” He steals a glance at Thor, and his chest constricts with a desire to recast that spell.

Thor lays a hand on Loki’s knee and squeezes. Without thinking, Loki covers Thor’s hand with his. “You know I love you,” Thor says.

“Pardon?”

“I love you, Loki.” Thor turns his hand and slips long fingers between Loki’s, filling the gaps just as he fills the cracks in Loki’s soul. “They're coming back in pieces, my memories. Of you, of us, hidden behind the waterfall in that cave. No one could see us there just as you promised.”

“Thor—”

“Though your spell robbed me of my memories, my love for you never ceased. Chris is still me, and we are in agreement that you deserve to be loved. Which is why”—Thor turns and holds Loki’s gaze prisoner—“I believe you should stay here. Earth suits you, as does Tom and his rather eclectic lifestyle. You have Sasha, you have your group of dancers, people who care for you. You’re the centre of attention and you have people flocking to you. You need not go back to Asgard and get yourself killed.”

“Do you really think so little of me?” Loki hisses and yanks his hand away.

“I think the world of you, Brother, but you are correct. They are not your people. This is not your fight.”

“And what about you?”

“I will go home and defeat our sister.”

“This is madness!”

“Perhaps,” Thor whispers and turns his face back toward the sun, eyes fluttering shut. “Perhaps I am a little mad.”

“Thor—”

“Loki,” Thor cuts him off and reaches over to clasp Loki’s knee. “You don’t have to decide right now.”

“What makes you think I’ll even consider going with you?”

Thor doesn’t respond. He pulls Loki from his chair and arranges him in his lap. They kiss, gentle, languid, as if Thor’s tasting him for the first time. Kissing Thor has always been like this, a rediscovery of something familiar. Thor pulls back, his breath still on Loki’s lips, and says, “I’ll wait for you to make your choice.”

He smiles. It’s not his usual beam of sunshine, but a soft twitch of lips that leaves Loki agitated as he pulls Thor in for another kiss. They make love bathed in the lazy beams of the mid-morning sun. Thor’s electricity zaps along him, through him, and Loki loses himself in the familiar heat of Thor’s touch. Falls asleep—despite his best efforts to stay awake—tucked into the curve of Thor’s body.

When Loki wakes, the bed is empty. Thor is gone.

===

Time marches to a different drum on Asgard.

Not that Loki cares. He’s definitely not thinking about what Thor is doing there while Loki is safe on Earth. At least Thor’s still alive. Loki is sure he would feel it in his bones otherwise.  

“Grande ristretto half sweet breve vanilla latte with extra whip for Tom,” the barista calls out as she pushes the paper cup across the counter.

Loki grabs his coffee and ignores the incorrect spelling of his name—it’s not his name anymore, so why should he care?—as he pushes out of the Starbucks and into the pouring rain. February in Vancouver is wet and cold and miserable; it’s a perfect reflection of Loki’s mood as he trudges toward the dance studio.

He takes a sip, and the sweet richness of the drink triggers memories of another time he made this order. The coffee sours on his tongue, and he chucks the whole thing into a trash can and wraps his coat tightly around his frame.

Sasha says nothing when he walks into the studio—his footsteps falling in sharp echoes—and drops his wet duffle on the floor. He changes into yoga pants and a loose t-shirt, and they move straight into stretching. Loki focuses on the routine as he and Sasha weave around each other in intricate steps, trying to lose himself in the dance.

Sasha, on the other hand, is not fooled. “Have you talked to him?”

“No.”

“Tom—”

“Stop. Please,” Loki says and inhales through his nose. “We’re done. I’m over him.”

Sasha worries at her cherry-red lips, a frown creasing between her perfect brows. “It’s not too late. We don’t leave until tomorrow afternoon.”

“He ended it,” Loki calls over his shoulder as he bends down to restart the music, “so there’s nothing left to say. Let’s finish rehearsing. We’re performing this routine tomorrow night in Chicago. Vacation’s over, sweetheart.”

Sasha narrows her eyes, but she doesn’t say another word as she reaches for his outstretched hand.

===

They end up performing in Chicago for a month, and by the end of the last show, every dancer in the company but Sasha is tired of Loki’s foul mood. Sasha’s sick of it too, but instead of avoiding him, she barges into his dressing room and plants her ass in his lap, her face inches away from his.

“This needs to stop.” She cups his cheeks and squeezes his face.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Loki stares at her lips because meeting her eyes is a terrifying thought. She always sees through him, and right now, Loki can’t afford her realizing he’s not Tom anymore.

“You know exactly what I’m talking about,” she says without missing a beat and yanks his face closer still, forcing Loki to stare into her eyes. “This moping, snapping, overall shitty behaviour has got to stop. You said you were over him, so act like it.”

Truth is, Loki isn’t over it. Over _him._ Thor made his choice when he left without saying a word, and Loki let the tiny spark of hope in his chest burn out. Asgard over him. How Loki thought this time would be any different is comical. He should have known better, but knowing doesn’t prepare him for this gaping, bloody hole in his chest.

Loki has chosen Midgard, has chosen to live out the rest of his long life as Tom. It’s the right choice, the _sane_ choice. Yet, every atom of his being fights against this rational decision as if they want to fly back to Asgard.

No. Loki is not rushing headlong into certain death for a place that’s not his, for a people that does not show him the respect he deserves. Here, on earth, men and women flock to him, adore him. They desire his company, and rich patrons pay for extravagant dates just for a chance to lie with him.

This is what Loki was made for, to be revered and cherished. To be made king.

He extricates his head from Sasha’s grip and buries his face in the crook of her neck, breathing the fragrance of her perfume. “Come to bed with me,” he whispers against her soft pale throat. She’s cool to the touch, and Loki ignores his yearning for the heat of Thor’s scorching skin.   

===

He doesn’t belong here. Hasn’t since the day he rediscovered his identity. Since the day Thor left.

Loki stares out the window, glaring at the pedestrians—dressed in skinny jeans and oversized, designer t-shirts—as they rush along the busy streets of Williamsburg. He sighs and backs away from the window, turning to stare at the apartment that has been his home since he left his parents. Or rather, since Tom left his adoptive parents when he was finally old enough to do so.

Coming home wasn’t his choice, but when the owner of the dance company urged him to take some “personal time,” Loki thought it would be wise to take some time off and regroup. Sasha came home with him, of course, because she never leaves his side. Loki is grateful to have her. Without her, he would be truly alone, and that’s a terrifying thought he doesn’t allow himself to dwell on often.

Today, the thought won’t leave him, and he shivers as he sinks into the cough and drags the blanket around his shoulders. Even though it’s the middle of July and the apartment is hot as Satan’s balls.

In his moment of weakness, Loki’s thoughts turn to Chris, to Thor, and the ache in his chest intensifies. He misses Thor, misses his big, stupid smile and his larger-than-life presence. Misses Thor’s arms around him, his soft lips peppering kisses along his skin. Even after falling from the Bifröst, Loki was certain Thor would look for him. It was the spark of hope that kept Loki going.

But now that Thor has decided he no longer wants Loki, Loki should move on and enjoy his new life. Yet, he cannot. Instead, he yearns for…something. Something he refuses to put a name to lest it becomes real.

The familiar jingle of keys drifts from the door, and Sasha pushes into the apartment, holding a paper bag. “I got Chinese.”

Loki grunts but doesn’t respond. The smell of food makes him queasy, and Loki pulls the blanket over his nose, content to be miserable. Sasha grabs two plates from the kitchen and comes back to join Loki on the couch.

“I got your favourite.” She ignores the withering look Loki shoots her and plates fried rice, spareribs, and stewed bok choy for them both.

Loki glares at his plate. The sound of Sasha chewing agitates him. “Can’t you chew quieter?”

“I’ll chew more quietly when you stop sulking like a petulant child, Loki.” Sasha sighs and pops a sparerib in her mouth.

The walls rush in. The room shrinks. _What?_

Loki’s breath freezes. He bolts upright, back rigid as he stares unblinking at the slight figure curled a mere feet from him. “Excuse me?”  

“It’s clever, really.” She stares at him, the silence between them broken by the sound of her chewing.

“You knew?” Loki sits up straight and the pit of his stomach falls out. He’s unsure whether to laugh or throw up, so he settles for staring.  

“Of course.”

“How? Who are you?”

Sasha places her plate on the coffee table and sits back, bending her knees and tucking her feet beneath her ass. She looks at him, a smirk tugging at the corner of her lips, and sighs. “I’ve known since the day you ‘broke up’ with Chris. One minute I was doing my own thing, and the next I was _you_ . Looking through your eyes as you lay on your back and Chris was on top of you, er, me—us—whatever and he was… _inside._ ” She jabs him in the ribs with her toes. “That’s when it all came rushing back.”

“What on Earth are you talking about?” Loki can’t breathe. Can’t think.

“Don’t you get it?” She arches a brow at him. “I’m you, silly.”

_What?_

“Yeah, right?”

_Wait, did I say that out loud?_

“You don’t have to. I can hear your thoughts, because they’re my thoughts, too.”

“All right. What sorcery is this?” Loki shifts away from Sasha as a dagger materializes in his hand.

“Your own.” Sasha unfurls her legs and stretches. “You created me.” When Loki simply stares at her, Sasha continues, “All those years ago on New Year’s Eve, you were in a bad place, and the dormant, magical part of you split off a piece of yourself and created me. You were so lonely, and I became your companion. Your friend.”

“This—I don’t believe this.”

“You have your powers back, you can find out for yourself if I’m lying.” Sasha takes Loki’s hand, and he closes his eyes.

His fingertips tingle as he sends out a tendril of his essence, or soul, if he had one, and tickles the tip along Sasha’s palm.  

Sasha’s essence is familiar like a well-worn sweater—warm and comforting—and when Loki pulls back, a small piece of her breaks away and merges with him. Loki’s eyes snap open, shaken to the core. He’s never managed a solid projection before, especially one that has its own personality and lasted for years.

“I feed off you. Your energy sustains me. I guess, deep down I just knew I couldn't be far from you.”

Everything makes sense. Why Sasha always stayed close—always took the same vacations and went to the same places—and why she was so clingy on New Year’s Eve. Loki is unsure what's more pathetic, that his projection has a better grasp on the situation, or that the only way he could find a friend was to create one.

Loki will always be alone.

“You know you’re never alone, right?” Sasha grabs the dagger from his hand and tosses it somewhere behind her. “You are Loki of Asgard.”

“And I am burdened with glorious purpose?”

Sasha rolls her eyes so hard Loki fears she might pull a muscle. “The important bit is that you will always consider yourself of Asgard. Not Jötunheim. Not Midgard. You know, in here”—Sasha crowds into Loki’s personal space and jabs a slender finger into his chest—“that no matter where you are, you have a home.”

“Thor said—”

“Thor is an idiot. But you knew that already.”

Loki blinks, and it’s another beat of silence before he bursts into a fit of laughter. Sasha smiles, then the melodic ring of her voice joins him until they’re doubled over with tears in their eyes. The peals of their laughter peter off as they gasp for air, but Sasha gets a hold of herself first. “But you know he loves you. And, deep down, you love him too.”

“He chose Asgard,” Loki says, his good mood evaporating like water on hot asphalt. “Is it so bad to want to stay here and have a normal life together?”

“No, it’s not bad at all,” she replies. “In fact, that’s probably the most sane thing to do. But—”

“But?”

“You’re not exactly the most sane person. And neither is Thor.”

Loki grins. “Perhaps we are both a little mad.”

Sasha reaches out and cups Loki’s cheek. Her touch is like smoke, shifting and spectral, and her form shimmers. Loki stares and despair like he’s never experienced slams into him. “Sash? What’s going on?”

“Now that you’ve decided, you don’t need me anymore.” She shrugs. “And here I was hoping you’d make it work as Tom. I kinda like it here, on Midgard.”

“That’s not true!” Loki reaches out with desperate fingers, but his hands meet no resistance as they pass through her torso. She’s an illusion, a trick of light and air, and she’s fading just like all his other creations.

“I’m a part of you, silly”—she rolls her eyes again and her colours fade a little more—“so I know that _you know_ where you’ll end up.”

“With Thor.” Loki shakes his head and chuckles. Wherever Thor goes, Loki follows. Always has. Always will. _Ymir’s tits._

She smiles, and a shaft of sunlight spears through her to shine a spotlight on the hardwood floor.   

“Wait,” Loki calls out with a bitter chuckle. “Wait wait wait, does this mean, when we made love, that I was only bedding myself?”

Sasha laughs, the rich ring of her voice a contrast to her translucent form. “Oh, you’ve done worse than that.” She reaches out with both arms and floats into Loki’s open embrace. “Remember, I’m not truly gone.”

Loki closes his arms around the space in front of him, but there’s only air and the lingering fragrance of her citrus shampoo. A warmth spreads from his chest, into the nooks and crannies of his soul, and something snaps into place. Something he wasn't aware he was missing until now.

He takes one last look around his apartment, and he’s never been more sure about where he needs to go than in this moment. He runs into the bedroom and comes out wearing his blue Fluevogs. If he’s going to Asgard to kick his sister’s ass, he wants to do it in style.

===

The air buzzes with an electric charge as Loki sets foot on the Bifröst.

The rainbow shimmers beneath the blue leather of his shoes, and Loki can feel the pull of static electricity on his scalp, frizzing his hair. He rolls his eyes, squares his shoulders, and the leather (in moss green, of course) squeals in soft protest as he loosens his muscles.

Asgard is a depressing sight. The palace is on fire, and the song of the forest is muted, dead in some places. Loki’s heart aches with each missing note, and his hatred boils closer to his skin. A large group of people huddle in the middle of the Bifröst, and Sol’s blazing light glints off the blade of Heimdall’s sword as he defends one end of the group from…glowing zombies?

Loki snorts and rolls his eyes again. The Goddess of Death has zombies. How typical. A bolt of lightning rains from the sky, and a figure shrouded in crackling blue light drops onto the rainbow bridge with a crackling thud.

Thor. He was always one for grand entrances. Loki flicks his wrists and two sharp daggers materialize in his palms. He takes one step forward, then another, and before he knows it, he’s running into the horde of undead soldiers, his knives rending and slashing through brittle armour and dried bones.

A cleaver swings toward his neck. Loki drops onto his knees, head tipping back as he stabs out with both hands. The eerie green light fades from already dead eye sockets, and the monster is double dead. A blur of black steel, and Loki watches in horrifying slow motion as a claymore flies toward his face. He wills a large blade into his hands, but he’s too slow.

Loki squeezes his eyes shut, but a familiar roar snaps them open. A blur of green mutated flesh, and the claymore clatters by his feet as the monster wielding it crumples between two large green fists.

“Hulk,” Loki says with a nod and curses the quiver in his voice.

“Puny god.” Hulk smirks at him, then jumps off to smash his way through another hoard of undead.

Loki bristles, but there’s no time to shout a retort as another monster runs toward him with both skeletal arms raised. A flick of his wrist and Loki’s knife embeds in shrivelled brain, and the monster falls to reveal a sight Loki never thought he’d see in his lifetime.

A Valkyrie.  

Thor has some serious explaining to do. Once Loki gets to him that is.

It’s slow going, cutting his way through more undead than there is any right to be as Loki nears the group of stoic Asgardians. Heimdall spares him a smile and a nod before running toward where the fighting is thickest, and the common folk hold their ground despite the fear and uncertainty on their faces.

A surge of pride crashes through him, a tidal wave of raw love for the people he tried so hard to leave behind. These brave men and women are his people, and he will die protecting them. The thought should scare him, but it doesn’t. Instead, a blanket of peace wraps around Loki, and, for the first time in a long time, he breathes the air of his home with ease.

Thor’s blinding streaks of lighting are guiding beacons as Loki wades through the throng of people. The undead army retreats in the face of Thor’s unrelenting lightning. No doubt they’ll regroup and try for another charge. Thor’s chest heaves with each laboured breath, and he’s missing an eye.

“You’re late,” Thor says, and the weight of pure, unadulterated love shining in his one good eye grounds Loki even more. This is where he belongs. Loki is home at last.

“You’re missing an eye.”

“This isn’t over,” the Valkyrie says and blurs past them in a flutter of blue and silver.

A cloying fear blooms in the base of Loki’s skull; its icy tendrils slither through his brain and down his spine. He glances up, and on the far side of the Bifröst, an ominous figure stands. Loki mutters words laced with power and tries to overcome the dread, but it’s taken root deep inside him, and he can’t shake it. Whatever this is, it’s magic stronger than Loki’s ever tasted, and it reeks of death and destruction.

“I’m glad you’ve decided to come home, Brother.” Thor’s voice cuts through the paralysis and the fog of panic blinding him. “I always knew you would.”

Loki takes a shaky breath, then schools his voice into something he hopes is aloof and says, “You said you’d wait.”

“I have. I waited until you arrived before facing Hela.” Thor smirks, cheeky; the look becomes him.

“Do not mistake my being here as forgiveness for your ill-mannered departure. I’m here to save our people.” The words tumble from his lips and they do not surprise him. They are his people as he is their prince. It’s interesting how things come full-circle, but that’s something Loki will ponder when all of this is over. If they don’t die first.

Thor’s expression softens, as much as it can in this stolen moment of reprieve. “If we survive this madness, I will make it up to you, I swear.”

“I shall hold you to that.”

“Are you two finished?” The Valkyrie glares at them over her shoulder.

A roar from beneath the bridge is the only warning they receive before Hulk lands on the Bifröst beside them, dripping wet and angry.

Thor gives everyone a thumbs up, and the smile on his face rivals that of the brightest sun in all the realms. Loki rolls his eyes and pulls two large daggers out of thin air, and the four of them turn to face the lone figure sauntering toward them.  

 _Hela_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's finally finished!! What a journey it's been! Thanks to everyone who's stuck with me every week!


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